The Darkness of the Soul
by Gawaine
Summary: Sequel to Harry Potter and the School for Wizards. Harry is a fugitive wizard. He is almost hopeless, when an opportunity from a forgotten source appears. Are there more problems with this job than meet the eye? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1 : An Opportunity

**The Darkness of the Soul**

**Spoilers:** Canon through OOTP, Harry Potter and the School for Wizards

**Summary:** Harry is a fugitive wizard. He is almost hopeless, when an opportunity from a forgotten source appears. Are there more problems with this job than meet the eye? Where is the new Dark Wizard and Lord that everyone keeps talking about?

**Chapter One**

Harry woke to the steady dripping of rain in the background. He had managed to firm up the roof of the leaky room just enough to make the water fall to either side rather than on his head, and the now soggy cardboard that he had piled up helped keep him above the places where it had pooled, but he couldn't do anything about the sound.

The sound of steadily dripping water brought him back to his second year, when he'd spent entirely too much time inside and under a girl's washroom. The year he'd fought a basilisk, and the year he'd met Ginny.

He still wasn't sure how he felt about Ginny, and looking back, he didn't know if he was more upset at Tom Riddle for nearly killing her or for directing the basilisk to attack Hermione. Since he'd probably never see either one of his friends again, it probably didn't matter.

The tower that he occupied was dark and gloomy. He clicked on a small Muggle flashlight that he'd bought at a filling station, and looked at the cheap Muggle watch he'd picked up at the same time. A quarter to midnight -- a lot earlier than he'd thought. As fitful as his sleep had been thus far, he had thought it must be nearly morning.

When he'd left Hogwarts, he'd had no idea of where to go. He had managed to get to Gringott's ahead of the Aurors, and the Goblins had let him make a withdrawal, and even exchanged money for him. They were probably happy enough to get the fees from him while they still could, before he was on the run. He wasn't sure what would happen to the money he left inside, so he had asked the Goblins to give a bag full of Galleons each to Hermione and Ginny. At least they'd have something. When he'd heard the Aurors coming, though, he'd slipped out as fast as he could, and he hadn't really put much thought into what came next.

He didn't have anywhere to go. He'd rather be Kissed than wind up at the Dursley's, and since he'd been responsible for Ginny's condition, he knew he couldn't face the Weasleys, even if he had managed to talk to any of them after Ron's death. He didn't even know where Remus was these days; he visited occasionally, but he was never available when Harry really wanted to see him. He was on his own, which meant he needed to find a place where he could at least sleep long enough to make new plans.

None of the hotels he talked to would rent to people without identification, especially a strangely dressed youth carrying a broom. Some of them even called the police, which meant the Aurors weren't long behind him. He spent a few days sleeping in dumpsters or on roofs, before he came up with an idea. He'd bought a bunch of groceries, and set out for a place he remembered from long ago, which he hoped was still deserted.

Harry felt a stab of nostalgia. He'd met Hagrid in this very room, eight years ago tonight. That was the first birthday he could remember that had been truly magical, in all senses of the word. It had been a night like this one, he remembered, a night which was the last one that he had felt totally alone. At least, until Albus Dumbledore informed him that he was going to face Azkaban for nearly killing a Hogwart's student, and that Ginny Weasley would probably never wake up.

There was a crash of thunder outside, and then a sound like a great pounding at the door. He supposed that something must have fallen against it, knocked off by the storm, but then the pounding repeated itself. Harry put his glasses on and grabbed his wand - he wasn't sure what was coming, but it probably wasn't friendly.

There was another crash, and the door fell inward. A tall figure was framed by the doorway, the ambient light of the shore in the distance outlining him. He was dressed in furs, a soaking hooded cloak over his head, his hands occupied by a wand and a silver-colored broomstick.

Harry jumped to his feet, ready to counter whatever curse the figure threw at him. He was astounded, though, at the figure's exclamation. "Harry Potter! At last, I have found you!" The man's features were still shadowed, but he had a thick accent that was familiar to Harry. The man leaned his broomstick against the wall, and pocketed his wand, and then moved to embrace Harry. In the miniscule light of the flashlight, which lay on Harry's improvised nightstand, Harry had a view of the man for a brief instant. He steadied himself, then decided to trust that fate hadn't completely abandoned him.

"Viktor Krum! It's great to see you!"

~.~.~

The two men, both renowned Seekers and powerful wizards, sat in the tower, talking in halting sentences. Viktor's English was better than it had been, but not perfect, and Harry hadn't talked with anyone in weeks. He was out of practice.

The tower was more comfortable now. Viktor had fixed the roof and walls, and transfigured some of the spare rocks into a pair of overstuffed chairs. A fireplace had sprung into being on the wall, making the place almost cozy. Harry hadn't known all the charms Viktor had used, but wouldn't have performed them before Viktor's coming even if he had - he was afraid that the Ministry of Magic would trace him by it.

That brought him to a question he had been afraid to ask. "Viktor, how did you find me? And why was it you that found me, not one of the...official people...who are looking for me?" He didn't ask if Viktor was working with them - he knew that Aurors always worked in groups of at least two, and he didn't think any partner would be patient enough to stand out in the rain while his mate and a murderer sat down by a fire.

"Ahh, Harry. You are not truly friendless. Someone, probably your Headmaster, has been laying false trails. Your Ministry couldn't find you if it assigned every last man to the job, and I don't think Arthur Weasley will think it is worth it, do you?"

Harry wasn't too sure about that, but he wasn't going to argue the point. "Then how did you find me?"

"We at Durmstrang don't think much of the idea of Unforgivable Curses. Fah - a single Killing does not a Dark Vizard make, ja? Especially when it didn't finish the job?"

Harry hung his head. He didn't even want to think about what he'd done.

Viktor continued. "So, when I heard you were between positions, I thought I would see if you wanted to verk with me."

"You're offering me a job?" Harry was more than a little stunned.

"Yes. Here's the letter, all proper, no?" He handed Harry a small envelope, and he was again drawn in by deja vu. It was a small letter, addressed merely to Harry Potter, the United Kingdom, with a seal on the back. He looked at the seal more closely - he knew it wasn't Hogwarts, and wasn't too surprised by the large D in the center of the wax. "Durmstrang," he muttered, as he opened it up.

"Is dere someting wrong wit that, Harry?" Viktor asked, beginning to look offended.

"No, not at all. Just...happy it wasn't Beaxbatons, you know?" Harry smiled weakly. He wasn't sure what he thought about Durmstrang, but he knew he couldn't be much of a chooser. His remark seemed to have the desired effect, though, and Harry opened the letter.

"They want me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Harry was surprised.

"Well, it's actually called Studies in Dark Arts. We do focus on Defense, but you may end up teaching a few spells that are useful, even if they are called Dark by some people." Viktor sniffed. "That will be up to you, though. Do you want the job? Durmstrang will not send you back to your Ministry, have no fear."

Harry needed a moment to think. He hadn't turned himself in, hadn't faced his punishment, so he wasn't willing to die - what was he willing to do to live? Did he want to live here in the tower, until his food ran out and he starved, or the place caved in on him, or it was rented to some ruddy tourist trying to avoid the post? "Viktor," he asked, stalling, "how are you involved? Would we be working together?"

"Ya, I'm at Durmstrang, when I'm not playing for Bulgaria. I am a sort of mascot," he said proudly, with a goofy grin. "I teach flying, and coach the Quidditch when I can." 

"That's great," Harry said, sensing that Viktor hoped for approval from Harry, even if he wasn't sure why. "I'll take the job." Harry's voice wavered, but he hoped he sounded confident. Viktor helped him shrink the few things that were worth keeping, and they both got their brooms.

"This is great, ya! Herm-me-one will be so happy."

"Hermione? Why?"

"Ach, I did not say. She is the one that asked me if I could find you a job. Now, let us fly!"

Harry was dumbstruck, but he couldn't ask Viktor anything more about 'Mione until they got to Durmstrang - and by the time that happened, he was too exhausted to ask anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2 : Arrival at Durmstrang

The Darkness of the Soul

CHAPTER TWO

Summary: Harry has just accepted a job at Durmstrang, one of the top three schools of Wizardry in Europe. They're willing to take him on despite his fugitive status, but will he be welcomed with open arms? 

Spoilers: First five canon books. Harry Potter and the School for Wizards 

Author's Note: Special thanks to Kianna of FictionAlley (Ding Ling-Lin here) for being my beta. Any mistakes that remain aren't her fault. 

  
  


* * *

The flight to Durmstrang took a number of hours. Harry had never flown across country for so long, although at least it was summer. He would have hated to face the weather around the snow-covered peaks that they passed, had it been any later in the year.

They had to stay close to the ground, and Harry had trouble keeping up with Krum. He felt challenged by the Bulgarian's flying skills, but knew he couldn't do any better in his condition, especially at night.

By the time they arrived it was well into daytime, and Harry saw Durmstrang ahead as they crested a mountain. He breathed in at the sight, and would have shared his thoughts with Viktor, but they were descending along the mountain's slope too fast for even a shout to pass between them.

The school was a castle, much like Hogwart's. It was made of stone, white with red veins running through it. It sat atop a flat mountain of rocks, hundreds of feet above a river, which flowed around it like a moat. The mountains were thick around the castle, and Harry could understand how such a place could remain hidden from all who would try to find it.

The school was obviously from a much more martial tradition than Hogwarts. There was a tall wall on the outside of the mountain that formed the base of Durmstrang, a wall almost fifty feet tall, pierced by slits at various periods. Turrets were placed at regular intervals along the wall. Harry could see that the only way off the mountain was a drawbridge across the river gorge.

Inside the walls were a number of smaller buildings - only a few stories tall each - and a large stables. There was also a huge building, topped with a dozen spires, one of which was at least seven hundred feet tall. The place seemed just as majestic as Hogwarts, but somehow darker.

Looking down at the river below, he saw that there were switchbacks carved into the mountain on both sides, barely broad enough for a student to walk alone. The switchbacks ended in docks on either side, and he could see a familiar looking longship docked at the bottom, swaying in the strong river current.

When they landed, Harry almost fell off his broom, he was so exhausted. Viktor didn't seem to notice, beyond a self-satisfied smirk. Harry would have wiped it off his face, but decided to spend his energies in standing up - at least until he could find a bed.

That didn't seem to take too long. Viktor assured him he'd meet the Headmaster at dinner, and he assisted Harry in finding his rooms. They were cold, but his bed was piled with blankets and furs, and there was already a fire burning. A set of robes was laid out on the table. Harry guessed that meant they were pretty confident that they'd get him.

He didn't even make small talk; he just collapsed on his bed, and descended into the darkness.

Harry awoke to find a hand shaking him awake. The room was darker, now, with the onset of evening. The hand belonged to Viktor, who was grinning above him. "You don't want to miss dinner, no? Get dressed, it is starting soon. I will wait outside."

Harry was grateful for the privacy, at least, as he shucked the rags that he'd been wearing and pulled on his new uniform. Red robes and furs made his complexion look pale, but he supposed that it could have been worse.

He left the room. Viktor commanded, "Walk this way!" and Harry followed Viktor on a circuitous route to the dining hall. While they didn't have the moving staircases of Hogwarts, they did have the trick stairs. Getting to the dining hall involved hopping at least ten of them, which wasn't easy, as all of the staircases seemed to be hopelessly narrow spiral staircases. Viktor seemed pleased that Harry didn't fall into any of the tricks, as he just jumped wherever Viktor did. He had an idle thought that Viktor might have just been twitting him, but he didn't think the man had that developed a sense of humor.

The Hall was huge. It was shaped like a large octagon, and appeared to be built into the side of the mountain, underneath the castle. Huge stained glass windows covered one side of the hall, although little light made it through. Harry supposed it there was never that much natural light in here, since it would be pretty hard for anything to make it through the windows. The glass showed four wizards standing in the center, beset by giants, dragons, and what looked like very short Vikings. Harry supposed that they were Muggles, but he didn't ask.

Opposite the window was a huge pipe organ. It appeared to be playing itself, and Harry noticed that in addition to the many pipes, it was adorned with several sets of drums, some horns, a dozen piccolos, and at least twenty bassoons. At least he thought they were bassoons - he had never been musically inclined enough to tell the difference between them and the other big bass instruments.

There were many tables, but only one of them was occupied, and it was here that Viktor was headed. The table was at the far wall, close to the stained glass windows. It was covered with a deep red tablecloth, which was barely visible under the mountains of food. Harry saw plates covered with meat, most of which looked barely done, platters covered with breads and rolls, and plates of cheeses. There were also pitchers filled with ales, and a bowl filled with sausage. Near the plate that they guided him to was a small, lonely dish that Harry thought might be a particularly loathsome bread pudding, probably there for his benefit, but he wasn't sure.

The two weren't alone around the table. The others all stood as they arrived, and Viktor introduced each in turn. Harry noticed that there were still more empty seats, so he resigned himself to having to remember more names. For now, though, there were only four new faces.

"Jurgen Johansen, Potions and Poisons," Viktor announced, pointing at the first. Harry reached over and shook his hand, which seemed unusually soft. The man was about five foot two, with slight build, short black hair, and a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses that seemed in danger of sliding down his nose. The man wore entirely black clothing, except for the magenta liner to his cloak. His expression was nondescript, but Harry thought he might have a chance of getting to know Jurgen. At least, he looked nicer than Snape.

"Haakon Hendersohn, Strategy and Tactics," Viktor continued, pointing to the next. Harry looked up, and up farther. Haakon wasn't as tall as Hagrid had been, but somehow felt even more solid. Harry suspected that the man had Giant blood, but was not about to ask. Haakon grabbed his hand, and squeezed it, in the traditional male testosterone standoff. Harry knew he wasn't giving as good as he got, but was satisfied at not betraying his pain.

Haakon was an odd counter-point to Jurgen. His height was an obvious difference, but not the only one. Where Jurgen was entirely dressed in dark colors, Haakon was a sea of brilliance. He wore a deep orange tunic over red trousers, orange-dyed boots, and had an earring in his left ear that had a large red stone in it. His hair was shaven, but his eyebrows were a bright orange, as was his beard. Only his fur cloak was black.

Haakon said a few phrases that sounded almost like "Welcome," but Harry wasn't sure. He just said, "Thanks, Good to meet you," and moved on.

The next hand was definitely different from both of the others. It was smaller and more delicate than even Jurgen's, which was not such a surprise, as it belonged to a witch, not a wizard. "Kirsten Karkaroff" was dressed in traditional robes, but somehow they looked better on her, definitely tailored, rather than the one-size-fits-all that most wizards ended up with.

She shook his hand more quickly than the others, and looked at him with distaste. Harry figured he didn't need to know why - there were more than enough reasons for someone to dislike him, and it didn't really matter one way or another. She said nothing to him, and he just repeated his "Good to meet you," before he found himself facing the Headmaster, his new boss.

The Headmaster was tall, his hair black, streaked with the white of old age. "Girard Spielzauber" was not quite what Harry had expected from a Durmstrang Headmaster, but he did look the part of the head of one of the most respected schools in Europe. He just didn't look sinister enough.

The smile that Girard wore wasn't the taunting smirk of Ivan Karkaroff or even Viktor. It was the jesting smile of a jovial man. Girard's beard was cut much shorter than Dumbledore's, and with more control, but it still had a certain resemblance.

His clothes were red, with fur-lined collars and sleeves. Had he been wearing an outfit like Jurgen's, he might have managed to look menacing, but the softer, looser, red gear looked more like Father Christmas after a diet and shave.

The Headmaster also appeared to speak English well, although he still had a thick accent. "Welcome, Harry. It is goot for you to be here. Please, have a seat, we do not sit on ceremony here."

Harry thanked him and sat, and happily partook in dinner. It was a great deal richer than he was used to eating, since his last meal had been a bag of Smarties, but he forced himself to eat steadily.

He could tell from Kirsten's reaction to the conversation that she understood some English, but she didn't contribute.

Most of the meal was occupied with small talk, and Harry didn't want to be the first to brooch anything serious. As they wound down, though, and the platters of meat were replaced with chocolate cakes and breads shaped like animals, Girard seemed to look serious.

"So, Professoren Potter. Have you thought about what you will be needing from us to begin your duties?"

"Well, do you already have a text for the course?"

"Yes, we do. We could change it, but it would be a large pain in the head for the bookstores and parents, so if you don't mind..."

"I'm not sure what I'd suggest anyway. The texts I'm familiar with in England all seem lacking in practical knowledge."

Kirsten put down her fork with a clatter, and stared at him, but Girard didn't seem to notice.

"Ach, yes. Your English press doesn't like to print such things that might be useful - they are almost as bad as the French, who can't see that you can't stop Evil by burying your head in the sand. I do not mean to offend," the Headmaster broke off.

"No, I'm not defending them," Harry said. "I've lived there, and while England was my home, I can't say their approach has done much good."

Girard waved his hand, dismissing the discussion. "Yes, well, what else can I do for you?"

"Well, I feel ashamed to admit this, Headmaster, but I don't speak anything well but English, and even that's debatable." He saw mirth in the Headmaster's eyes, and felt hopeful that things would work out here. "I need to learn, well, whatever's useful around here. Can you help?"

"I think that can be arranged," he said, smiling.

Another thought had occurred to him earlier, and he'd almost forgotten it, but it was associated with enough pain that he couldn't entirely. "One other thing. Back at Hogwarts, there was a book, which a friend of mine really loved, called 'Hogwarts: A History'. Is there something like that for Durmstrang? I don't mean to pry," he said, noticing that they were staring at him, and wondering if he'd made a dreadful mistake. "I just know that I'll probably make enough of a fool of myself no matter what I do, and I thought, I could try and learn something about your - no, our history, before I had to deal with students."

Girard nodded, thoughtfully. "Yes, that is most wise. There is a history of Durmstrang, which we can show you."

Haakon didn't look like he had followed the entire discussion, but he had a look of clear distaste on his face. "Herr Spielzauber, wir konnen nicht..." Girard silenced him.

"Harry, you just need some background, no? Just what our students have. There is a book in my study that you can use. If you have any questions about items beyond that, please let me know before you try to find the answers elsewhere. We are perhaps too secretive, but you can understand our concerns?"

"Of course," Harry said, although he really couldn't. They were trusting him with their students - what else could they trust him with that would be worse? "I'm just glad to have the chance to learn anything. I'm so used to having my friend, Hermione around to ask questions like that."

At Hermione's name, Kirsten put her fork down so hard that her plate shattered, and she stalked off, with the entire table staring at her.

Viktor looked distressed, and Girard stood up. "Well, this was a most wonderful dinner. I hope that you will allow me to lead you back to your chambers?" As soon as Girard had asked the question, Viktor walked away from the table.

Harry nodded, and walked with Girard. He didn't jump over near as many steps, which made Harry wonder if there were less tricks on this route, or if Viktor had been playing with him after all.

"I will arrange to have your language lessons begin tomorrow. You are fortunate that our languages teacher is here for the summer, or you would be on your own," there was an ironic look on Girard's face, and Harry had a feeling that he knew what was coming.

In their sixth year, Ron and Harry had started playing a game called, "How could it be worse?" The idea was that, whenever they had a question of what would happen next, they only had to imagine what the universe, with its sick sense of humor could come up with that would be worse than whatever they feared. For example, "What could be worse than having Sirius Black out to kill me?", "Having Sirius Black out to save me from Ron's pet rat!" Or, "What could be worse than having a new DADA teacher appointed by Fudge?", "Having her appoint herself Headmaster, Grand Inquisitor, and Grand Pumbah."

He knew, with some certainty, who the language teacher would be, but he also knew that Girard expected him to ask. "Headmaster, who's teaching languages? Viktor didn't say."

"Ach, of course, languages are taught by our History of Magic teacher," he said, pacing his answer for greatest effect. "You met her tonight - Kirsten."

They were back at his door, and Harry had to admire the timing. "Headmaster, have you ever met Fred or George Weasley?"

"No, I have not had the honor, although I do keep a plate of their delightful toffees in my office." Yes, there was definitely a glint there, and Harry reminded himself never to eat anything in Girard's office. "Good night, Headmaster."

"Good night, Mister Potter."

* * *


	3. Chapter 3 : Adrift

The Darkness of the Soul

CHAPTER THREE

Summary: Harry has just accepted a job at Durmstrang, one of the top three schools of Wizardry in Europe. They're willing to take him on despite his fugitive status, but will he be welcomed with open arms? 

Spoilers: First five canon books. Harry Potter and the School for Wizards 

Author's Note: Special thanks to Kianna of FictionAlley (Ding Ling-Lin here) for being my beta. Any mistakes that remain aren't her fault. 

  
  


Harry took almost an hour to find the dining hall the next morning, but Girard was still there, as was a good selection of breakfast foods.

"Ahh, Mister Potter, I was afraid you had changed your mind about joining us."

"I'm sorry, Headmaster - its just taking me time to learn the new castle. I'm sure I'll be better in few days."

"I'm sure you will be as well. I'll walk you to Professor Karkaroff's study when you are done eating."

Harry started to wolf-down the food, but Girard stopped him. "No need to rush. I'm certain that Kirsten will be happy to have the extra time. To prepare, I mean."

Harry winced, and slowed down his eating. Girard talked while he ate, giving him an idea of how the school was organized.

They didn't have Houses that were as significant as what there was at Hogwarts, probably because there were more of them. For defense, they didn't have that many students in once place. The hair on the back of his neck rose as Harry heard him talk about splitting the students up more, so that they couldn't lose a quarter in an attack.

There were eight Houses, but Harry couldn't pronounce their names. It didn't seem to be as important, though, since they didn't have house points. They did have individual points, though, which Harry could deduct or add as he chose.

There was something like a sorting, but it didn't use a Hat. There was a sort of a gauntlet that students had to run, and somehow it chose what House they'd be in, and what they'd study their first year at the same time. First year students learned Potions and Poisons, History of Magic, and Curses and Charms, but they also had electives that were chosen for them. These electives might be Studies in Dark Arts, Strategy and Tactics, Muggle Interaction, or Workmaking. Harry wasn't really sure what the last one was, but this was more a lecture than a conversation, so he didn't ask.

Then he found out that Houses mattered more than he first thought. First off, he could assign House Detentions. He was supposed to do that, in fact, for some offenses. A House Detention meant that the whole house had to do something together, so that they'd be encouraged to put more pressure on the offenders.

Secondly, he couldn't assign House points directly, but that was just so that the House always knew who was bringing them down. They still totaled all the points, and the winner still got the house cup, although they called it something else unpronounceable. The losers got something worse, though, and it wasn't just having to see someone else's colors on the walls. They had to serve House Detention the whole next year with any other house that had detention.

This seemed to have some drawbacks, which were quickly apparent to Harry - the seventh years didn't have as much in the way of incentive to stay good, for one thing. He stopped eating long enough to bring that up, so he didn't lose the topic.

Girard nodded, pleased to see that the young man had been paying attention. He explained, "The seventh years from the house in last place, they have to serve a month of detentions after school finishes for the term. They had all just left when you arrived, in fact."

Well, that answered that. There wasn't much worse than a month of detentions, especially without anything else to do.

Talking to Girard, it developed that there was no equivalent to Hogsmeade. Durmstrang students were allowed to hike, fly, and swim outside of town, in the surrounding mountains and lakes, with a charm that would help them find their way back, but they weren't allowed or encouraged to visit any settlements. Well, Harry probably wouldn't have, anyway. He felt safe from the Aurors at Durmstrang, since the place felt strong enough to survive a full-scale invasion, but he wasn't sure if he was protected outside, as well.

After he was done, Girard led Harry up to Kirsten's office. Up, and way up. She was at the top of one of the shorter spires, only about two hundred feet off the ground.

When he entered her office, to her sharp command to "Enter!", he was amazed. Behind her desk was a beautiful window that curved with the wall of the building, letting in a brilliant light. Girard nodded his good-byes and left, while Harry entered.

Kirsten looked at him like he was some particularly venomous vermin, but didn't gesture to a seat.

"Would it be alright for me to sit down?" He asked, finally, after a long silence.

She nodded, and he sat.

"I really appreciate your doing this," Harry said, plowing on into the silence. He really didn't want to ask why she hated him, but he really wanted to know. She still didn't say anything, and he let the silence continue.

Finally, he couldn't take it any longer. "I'm sorry for inconveniencing you, Professor. I'll tell the Headmaster that I was too difficult a student, and I'll ask him if he can point me to a book or something - this was just too much to ask."

He started to stand, and she commanded. "Sit."

He sat.

She was looking at him more appraisingly, now, and less like she would commence to step on him. "I've told Girard that I will teach you, and teach you I will." She paused.

Harry sensed she was waiting for something from him. "Thank you. I appreciate your help."

"We will be working on German, Russian, and Latin. Most of our students speak at least one of these languages. Once school starts, I will expect you to sit in with my sixth and seventh year language classes - you will learn Goblin and Troll, as well as other useful tongues."

Conversing with Kristen seemed disjointed. She wasn't really talking with him - just making statements, towards someone who happened to be in the room. She didn't acknowledge anything he said after his initial outburst, she just plowed on.

Harry was having trouble keeping everything straight - she tried to start him with Latin conjugation, which he'd never been good at, but she kept trying, anyway. Tomorrow he'd have German, which he hoped wouldn't have so many confusing ways to change each word.

The whole time, he was conscious of a heaviness in the air, like an oncoming storm. Whatever Kirsten had against him, it remained unsaid, but it was in the room with them, and he could feel its almost tangible presence.

When he left, it was a breath of fresh air, and Harry bounded down the staircases, leaping over anything that looked questionable. He came to a screeching stop at the bottom, almost running into Victor, who was walking the halls, whistling.

The Bulgarian Seeker looked as happy as Harry had ever seen him. He had a scroll clutched in his left hand. When he saw Harry, Victor let out a great shout, and he grabbed him, swinging him around. Harry was stunned.

"Uhh, Victor, I like you and all, but not quite like this."

Victor put him down. "I am just so happy, I could sing!" Harry was quite sure he didn't want to see that, but didn't think he could get out of earshot quite fast enough.

"What's so great Victor?"

"I have waited for many years, but now, the girl of my dreams, she is in my grasp." He pointed to the letter. Harry closed his eyes. He had a feeling that he knew what was coming. "Yes, it is mine Herm-own-ne." He still couldn't get her name quite right. "She says that she may visit me this year, here at Durmstrang. I am so glad that I did not give up hope. Come, friend, have a drink with me." 

He pulled Harry along to the Dining Hall, and Harry realized that it was already late in the afternoon. He'd lost all track of time when he was in his language lessons - not in a good way, but with the same timeless quality that a class with Professor Snape had held. 

It looked like most of the Professors at Durmstrang ate lunch late. The same group was at the table as yesterday, except for Kirsten. There were wine bottles together with the ale at the table, and Victor passed one to Harry. He wasn't sure he was quite used to the casual way that Durmstrang included alcohol with every meal, and he supposed that it would take him some time to get used to. Well, it wasn't quite every meal - he hadn't noticed anything alcoholic at breakfast.

He passed the bottle on to Jurgen, who hissed back at him. "No thank you. I never drink wine." For some reason, the odd Potions professor seemed to think this was hilarious, and Harry decided that he would really have to watch his own alcoholic consumption.

"Victor, you seem in unusually high spirits today," Girard observed, and Victor nodded enthusiastically in response.

"Yes, yes," Victor affirmed. "I have been waiting for this since my youth. My Herm-o-ninny will be mine. I have a letter from her, right here. She is pleased with the way I have guarded her friend, and she cares for me."

Harry felt a yearning every time he heard Victor mispronounce her name. The previous summer, he had begun to think that there was a possibility for him and Hermione to live happily ever after. Apparently, he had not been alone in thinking that - otherwise, the well-meaning professors of Hogwarts wouldn't have needed to convince her to leave him for the year. They thought that by breaking his heart, they would protect him from death. It might have worked, but his heart was surely broken beyond repair now. If Victor was right, then Hermione had decided to move on. 

He was silent, and Victor clapped him on the back. "I am a lucky man, no?"

"Very lucky, Victor. I know I've never been as lucky as you. If you'll excuse me, I think I need to work on something for Kirsten." He stood, and walked out. Victor almost didn't seem to notice, as he was intent on sharing his news with the others at the table.

The days passed, and that was all that he could say about them. He spent each morning with Kirsten under her stare. He learned enough Latin, Russian, and German to ask where the bathroom was and to order dinner, but that was about the limit - between having to figure out the conjugation for each language and trying to understand the alphabets, he felt horribly confused, but he had nothing else going on anyway.

In the late afternoons, after what passed for lunch in the castle, he'd go to Girard's office, and read through the Abridged History of Durmstrang. He didn't feel the sense of curiosity that he had in Dumbledore's office - Girard's contained locked cabinets, and everything not locked up was in such neat order that he couldn't consider disturbing it.

His evenings, after dinner, were entirely his own, and he spent them reading his textbooks. There were ten of them, spread throughout the different years, with some years having more than one book. He had both English translations and the originals for each book, and he used a translation charm to help him figure out the differences. 

He was amazed at the depths of what Durmstrang's Dark Arts classes covered. He was accustomed to Hogwarts, where it overlapped with both Magical Creatures and Charms, but here, it seemed to overlap everything. There were studies in history, strategy, tactics, and potions. He found a charm that would force Polyjuiced people back to their normal form, which he endeavored to learn. He also learned more about the theory behind many of the curses than he'd ever cared to.

This existence inside his books lasted for almost a week before it started to drive him crazy. He knew that he couldn't stop his language courses, and he still felt compelled to learn what he could about Durmstrang, but he was absorbing almost nothing in his evenings, and he figured he had learned enough to start the class. Fortunately, Girard had already given him a set of lesson plans and course schedules, so he didn't have much preparation that really needed to be done until his first set of examinations in November.

He still needed something to fill his time, though, and his old Hogwarts pastimes of flying, raiding the kitchen, or fighting evil didn't seem available. Thinking about Hogwarts gave him an idea, though. He was still getting lost around the castle, and more than once he'd wished that he had something like the Marauder's Map. There was no reason he couldn't have one, he realized, he'd just have to make his own.

He still had a few weeks left before school started, and he felt that he probably knew as much about most charms as any Hogwarts student could be expected to. He had done some investigation into how the Map worked before, when trying to figure out how to get it updated to show the blockages in some of the secret passages and to omit a few places that he'd like to keep secret, like the room of requirements. The spells required were tough, but not too time-consuming, which probably wasn't too surprising, given that the Marauders weren't the most studious gang in history. It might take months to actually create it, but little of that was time spent in a lab or his office, most of it was just time spent wandering the halls and learning his way around, so he could transfer his memories of the passages to the map. If nothing else, it gave him a reason to risk the trick steps each night.

Wandering the castle gave him a great sense of freedom. No one was trying to keep anything from him, that he could tell, and he felt like the master of his new domain. He was lonely, but if he didn't talk about it, he could almost forget his loneliness - and since he hardly talked to a soul, that wasn't terribly hard.

He was almost starting to dread school starting. He was surprised when he saw the ship depart one day in late August, but the Headmaster confirmed his thoughts. The ship had gone, run by Victor, to pick up the students.

A new term lay ahead of Harry, and strange emotions filled him. He was filled with some anxiety for how it would go, regret for the loss of his free time, and sadness for the loss of his years at Hogwarts. More than any of these, though, he was filled with a sense that he was, for better or worse, totally on his own.


	4. Chapter 4 : A Letter

The Darkness of the Soul

CHAPTER FOUR

Summary: Harry has just accepted a job at Durmstrang, one of the top three schools of Wizardry in Europe. They're willing to take him on despite his fugitive status, but will he be welcomed with open arms? 

Spoilers: First five canon books. Harry Potter and the School for Wizards 

Author's Note: Special thanks to Kianna of FictionAlley (Ding Ling-Lin here) for being my beta. Any mistakes that remain aren't her fault. 

  
  


The first-year students who arrived looked much like Hogwarts students - many of them looking far too young to be on their own. They were dressed in their new school robes, red cloth and fur, and as they walked up the switchbacks carrying their trunks, they were led in the school song.

Second-years and later didn't come from the ship at all. Apparently, they were brought by carriages from nearby villages, and they were allowed to cross the drawbridge. The switchbacks and the ship were Durmstrang's equivalent of the boat ride across the lake at Hogwarts. All things considered, Harry preferred the boat ride - at least they didn't have to carry their own trunks.

There were some significant differences between these students and the ones at Hogwart's. There was an indefinable element of pride, which Harry hadn't seen in many of the people that he met in his old school. The ones who had come to school with self-confidence were mostly arrogant thugs, like Malfoy. Even Hermione, who had every reason to feel full confidence in her abilities, had arrived at school certain that she wouldn't be able to compete, and had never really gained much in the way of self-assurance.

In contrast, these students seemed to have a sense that they belonged here. Some of them may have been nervous, but there were no Neville Longbottoms in this crowd. There were also few that held the questioning, awe-inspired look that he had worn during his first year. He supposed that meant that there were less Muggle-borns among the crowd. Did that mean that they didn't keep an eye out for Muggle-borns, the way the Ministry did in Britain?

Harry also noticed that the wizards far outnumbered the witches among the students. He didn't know why that was, but he supposed that, given a choice, a witch might prefer to attend a school that was a trifle more feminine than the dark gothic castle. That, or they might have more overprotective parents, who were less willing to risk them at a school known for the Dark Arts.

As the first years entered the inner courtyard, he noticed that the others had organized themselves into eight groups, organized almost regularly around the courtyard, which had twelve equal sides. They seemed to have oriented themselves into ranks by age, and they'd left space behind themselves for the new arrivals. The inner courtyard was walled, inside the larger outer courtyard, and Harry had been told that it was used mainly for school functions like this. 

As Harry watched, the new arrivals stacked their trunks near the entrance, and proceeded to the middle. They seemed to be waiting for something.

There was a sound in the background, the beating of a deep drum. It started to get louder, and Harry realized it was coming from the castle itself. The spires shook as the beat sounded, slowly pounding, about a beat a second.

After nearly a minute of this, the houses started to sing, all together, but each house singing a different song. It was beautiful, and very different from the cacophony of Hogwarts. Each house seemed to be singing its own anthem, but they all seemed to harmonize. His Translation charm overloaded, Harry couldn't make out more than the odd word, but he had a sense of martial strength and fierce pride. At some points, they all sounded the same word or note together, and the effect was like a hammer hitting an anvil.

Then they stopped, and Girard addressed the students. The beat was still sounding in the background. "Welcome to Durmstrang Academy. You have been selected because you are among the best, and we have great faith in your ability to carry forward our school's reputation. 

"You will shortly be selecting your House. You will remain with your House as long as you are at Durmstrang. Your House is like your clan, or your pack - you will work together, you will succeed together, or you will suffer together.

"A few announcements before we begin. Students are not to leave the grounds of Durmstrang without permission from a Professor and the Head of their House. This permission will not be granted in the first month of term, and will rarely be granted for those in their first year here.

"Students are reminded that they are expected to act like Gentlemen." Harry could almost hear Hermione bristling at this comment, even though she wasn't here. He knew she'd ask, _what about the witches?_ "Students are also reminded that Durmstrang does have an extensive Honor Code, which you are expected to follow. This code was distributed to all students with their start of semester supply lists, and an extra copy is available in the Castellan's office."

"The winning House from last year is House Dalmuti. They distinguished themselves last year with both academics and good behavior. They are also the current holders of the House Quidditch cup. House Dalmuti will be honored at dinner tonight.

"The sorting will now commence. First year students - as I call your names, you will proceed through the portal to my right. You will receive a sign of your house during the sorting. When you return to the courtyard, you will join your house, standing at attention in the back." The portal in question was a stone archway, one piece, made of a smooth white stone with black engraved runes in it. It was in the side of one of the courtyard walls, but Harry couldn't see anything through it - it looked as black as coal. He had noticed the arch earlier, but thought it was merely decorative - until the ceremony began, the black center had appeared solid white. There was another arch facing it, on the other side of the courtyard.

Girard started to read the names, slowly. Harry counted, and noticed that he waited twelve beats after each name. They weren't being read alphabetically - Harry wasn't sure what the scheme was, nor did he notice a pattern, except that he saw that first year students that were standing together usually seemed to be called together.

It took over a half-hour for Girard to call the names, but it took closer to two hours before everyone returned through the other portal. The fastest anyone came back was only about ten minutes, Harry guessed, but they didn't seem to come back in the same order that they were called. Each came back with an amulet around his neck, which seemed to have some sort of emblem.

He was privately horrified at the state that some of them returned in. A few seemed covered with bruises or hives, and one young witch had a bleeding wound on her temple. She seemed dazed, but no one moved to help her, and Girard shot Harry a warning glance, as if he was afraid that Harry would embarrass them all. He stood his place, though privately wishing he could do something to help the eleven-year-old child. He knew that even Professor Snape would have had trouble acting callous among all these hurt children, especially since none of them were Gryffindors or related to James Potter.

By the time that they had all returned, the sun had dropped behind the mountains, and it was fully dark. As soon as the last student took his place, they started singing again, and preceded to walk towards the Houses, which were in various small keeps inside the outer courtyard. As they walked, the beating trailed off, but they sang until they were beyond earshot. 

The Professors seemed to march together, and Harry followed, trying not to be too out of place. Girard hadn't really prepared him for this. They progressed into the main building, where they went to the Great Hall and dined alone.

Harry didn't want to be the first one to break the silence, so he was quiet during dinner. He wasn't sure why there weren't any students there - he wondered if they were being forced to fast.

After dinner, they left, walking towards their respective quarters.

Harry's quarters were in one of the surrounding spires, although not at the top. They consisted of a large open room with a bed and a fire, and a smaller room for entertaining, with a dumbwaiter and speaking tube to the kitchen. He hadn't seen a house-elf here yet, but he assumed that they served here just as they did elsewhere. No one answered in words when he used the tube, but any food requests that he made were quickly answered through the dumbwaiter. 

He had windows, which he had needed to work hard to open. They were framed with the same thickly stained and leaded glass as all the other windows he'd found here, letting through little non-diluted light. Apparently, the previous residents hadn't cared much, as the gears to the mechanism that opened them were worn with age.

At least, opened, they were large enough to be useful. The window was almost five feet wide, and six feet tall, with a large stone ledge on either side. It was inset nearly a yard inside the wall, presumably so that people would have trouble seeing inside. There was a small hole in the roof of the outside window sill, which connected to a trough above - Harry had found a pamphlet on defending Durmstrang which suggested pouring boiling potions into the trough if there was any attempt to breach through the window.

It looked like there had been bars at one point on the outside sill, but he was glad that they had been removed - it was one place where defense had been compromised in favor of comfort or personal freedom, he decided, which proved that the school wasn't entirely unredeemable.

He opened the window, now, enjoying the evening air. As he did, he saw a shape in the distance, and wondered if he should start preparing a potion for the hole.

The shape split into two, and Harry could see that there were two owls, one mostly brown, the other largely white, flying towards the tower - straight for his window, in fact. At the last moment, one of them flew upwards and away from the window, while the other plowed through, and then alighted on Harry's arm. She looked winded and wearied from what was undoubtedly a long trip, but she was still immediately recognizable. "Hedwig!"

Harry carried her over to the speaking tube, and asked for a treat for an owl. The dumbwaiter arrived a few minutes later with a small cage with a pair of white mice and a bowl of water - not quite what Harry had envisioned, but Hedwig looked eager to dig in, and he couldn't deny her the opportunity. He put the cage out on the windowsill and opened it, with the bowl next to it, and he left Hedwig to eat. Before he did, though, he removed her cargo from her leg - a small scroll, tied with a red ribbon.

He opened the scroll, wondering who had found him, and what they'd had to say.

It was from Ginny.

The fact that she was writing to him meant that she was alive, that she'd regained consciousness. Harry hadn't realized how much he had assumed she wouldn't, how much he'd assumed that she was totally and utterly lost, until he found that she was alive.

The letter wasn't too long, and it didn't seem to say much of substance. Remembering Umbridge's willingness to read his mail, she probably hadn't trusted it to anything important.

She apologized for her prior letter, the one she'd sent him at Hogwarts. It hadn't even occurred to him that the letter was written after she knew about the Orpheus curse, and that, in retrospect, it had been a pretty transparent attempt at protecting him. It was an attempt to hurt his feelings that only made sense if she really cared. Trying to follow the logic of that made his head hurt, but somehow he couldn't work up any anger at Ginny. She'd tried to protect him by untruth, the same as Dumbledore and the rest, but it was clear she'd only done it because she was following their lead - even then, she might have spilled it to him, if he hadn't unknowingly insulted her first. 

Ginny didn't say how she'd found him, but did say that there was more she wished she could tell him, and that she hoped he'd give her a chance. He couldn't see any way of that happening, though - he wasn't going to return to England for anything, since there was every chance he'd lose his soul to a Dementor, and he'd probably get Ginny in trouble, too.

There were a few other pieces of news - Remus Lupin had broken with Dumbledore, and was living entirely on his own again, whereabouts unknown. Bill was getting married to Fleur, finally, and moving in with her in Paris, working with the Gringott's branch there. There was nothing about Hermione, though.

Harry sighed - it looked like life was going on back in England, without him, and like they didn't have any need for the Boy Who Lived. If he didn't have anything else, he'd just have to throw himself into his work here.


	5. Chapter 5 : Unintended Consequences

**CHAPTER FIVE - The Law of Unintended Consequences**

Harry soon resigned himself to the fact that Durmstrang didn't have a single house like Slytherin - they had eight. The school's martial approach and subtle encouragement of Dark Arts techniques probably contributed, or perhaps it was just a difference in marketing techniques, but far too many students had the arrogant, self-important stance that reminded him of his old nemesis.

Strangely, this target-rich environment actually discouraged his attempts to teach humility through pain. He was almost unrecognizable from his previous classes. He would quickly move through the planned lessons, and then have his students work practical examples, filling in space by giving them what they seemed to want - personal stories and opinions about the dangers of the Wizarding World.

He was worried that he came across like Gilderoy Lockhart, and he tried to always emphasize that he'd accomplished everything important with the help of others. This seemed to avoid too much of a hero complex, but it also had an unintended consequence. Without the heroic Harry Potter as their idol, the children seemed to listen to gossip, which painted a different picture.

He overheard them sometimes, as he wandered through the dark halls and courtyards, still trying to map out the entirety of the castle. The ones that thought he was overrated didn't bother him half as much as the ones that thought he was dangerous - and the spin that some of those conversations put on it was chilling. One of them stayed with him for weeks - he heard a couple of students from House Dalmuti talking in the East Garden.

"I still say he's nothing but a murderer - he killed his own student!"

"That's not that unusual for a Dark Arts teacher - it happens sometimes. It's a dangerous subject."

"But he's not a typical Dark Arts teacher. He hasn't taught us much that's really useful yet. I mean, if we had to fight a bunch of bloodthirsty giants, do you really think we could hold them off with a tickling charm? We need something that does real damage."

The students were both first-years, and although strictly speaking, he could have fined them both points for their cheek, he had lost some of the fire he had banked against the Slytherins in past years. Besides, hearing eleven-year olds speaking so nonchalantly about death was too much for him at the moment. He considered correcting them, telling them that he didn't believe that Falco was dead, but what would he say? "He's still alive, I think?"

In his wanders through the Castle, there were a few places he kept coming back to. There were four large gardens, each walled and connected to the outer walls. He supposed that there had been some special defensive reason for this, but now the walls around the gardens also abutted most of the Houses and classroom buildings, and the North garden also abutted the Castle proper. Many of these places where the walls met contained doors, some of them concealed, and Harry was doing his best to find them all.

He found that, unlike Hogwarts, there was no stigma against Professors visiting the various Houses - this was probably because, unlike Hogwarts, the Heads of House were just seventh year students, not selected Professors, and thus the Professors didn't have the same competitive reasons for staying out.

That didn't mean that his appearances were unmarked, however. The Houses seemed to almost come to attention when he entered, and they seemed to regard his walks through their lands as a sort of drill inspection. He rarely said anything, though, or gave any recognition to their actions - except in one case.

It was late on a Thursday night in September, and he was walking through House Martello. The House had been last year's loser, and they had already spent several nights recently serving detentions with others. It seemed like some of the other houses were more than happy to have detention, since they knew that it affected Martello even more than them. Apparently, once you were in the last place, you tended to stay there - it was hard to ever work your way up to the lead. 

The detentions had not only demoralized the House and its members, they also took away valuable time from the students' studies, and the care of their House. Unlike Hogwarts, students here could not expect house-elves to make their beds for them, although they did at least launder their sheets. As Harry entered the House through a passageway hidden behind a currently unoccupied painting of N. Machiavelli, he saw a half-asleep boy jump up in alarm, and start running through the hallways, bringing people to alert, with his house amulet flapping on his chest from the effort. The boy seemed completely terrified.

Harry frowned. There was something painful about having people run in terror from him. He paused for a moment, and started studying the frame of the painting he'd entered through, and then looking at the other paintings in the hall. He heard students running and working at their beds frantically. He waited for almost fifteen minutes, until it had just about quieted down, before he proceeded.

The students were sweaty and out of breath, and almost all of them had obviously thrown their beds together frantically. There was a resigned look on some faces. They probably thought that their losing streak was about to continue.

He took the time to actually look into each room, rather than walking through in his normally ambivalent fashion. The dorms were positively spartan, unlike the posh ones at Hogwarts. The underclassmen had two-level bunk beds, with six bunks to a room. There was more than one class to a room, which was a big difference from Hogwarts - in fact, the first four years seemed hopelessly scrambled between rooms. 

The boy who had noticed him first was still working on his bed, but he jumped up when Harry entered the room. Harry recognized him from one of his Dark Arts classes - his name was Mister Nagarian, although he couldn't remember the boy's first name. From what Harry had gathered, he was from one of the small Eastern European republics.

Harry stopped, and looked at the bed. There was something in the trembling manner of the boy, the absolute terror, and for a moment, he thought of Neville's first meeting with Snape. He examined the corners intently - the bed, for all the boy's haste, was just about perfect.

He spoke loudly. "One of the people that I learned the most from in my time at Hogwarts had a saying. He pointed out that you could never know everything; that you could never predict what might come. The only defense, he would constantly repeat, was CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Harry's loud voice echoed in the wet stone halls.

"This boy did his part, and also managed to give you all enough warning to do yours. Three points to you, Mister Nagarian," he nodded. Three was about as much as a Professor could get away with adding on a whim - there was no hard limit, but anything more than that would trigger questions that he didn't really want to answer, like what he was doing in the area to begin with.

He walked off, but the boy was positively glowing. He also gathered, from the looks on the other students' faces, that he'd made a positive impression. He didn't know if it was for his kindness, though, or his ability to speak loud in enclosed quarters.

Harry stopped by the scoreboard on his way back to his Quarters. The board showed the names of each of the students at Durmstrang, over a thousand in all, together with their current score, grade average, and house. His points would have already been tracked, as the magic of the Castle took care of such things, but he wanted to see how the standings looked. 

Mister Nagarian's first name was Sarcos, and he was currently somewhere in the middle of the pack. He was doing fairly well for House Martello, though, which seemed to be lagging - Harry wondered how much of that was just simple exhaustion.

Looking at the board, he saw some familiar names, and shuddered. MacNair, Nott, and Karkaroff were in a few places. He wondered if they were related to those he'd run into back at Hogwart's, in Voldemort's employ.

He still hadn't asked anyone if Kirsten was related to Ivan Karkaroff, the former Headmaster of Durmstrang. If she were, he didn't know if she'd blame him for bringing up old wounds, although it might explain her hatred for him. If she weren't, she might be upset at him for suggesting the connection. And even if he asked someone other than her, he was afraid it might get back to her. He'd already noticed that most of the other Durmstrang Professors, the "real" Professors, as he thought of them, had a habit of exchanging information without including him.

Whatever the reason for it, Kirsten hadn't let up, although she was at least coldly courteous during the language classes that he attended. Her disdain was still obvious enough, though, that most of the students in those classes had picked up on it, which had helped his standing with the sixth and seventh years, at least.

~.~.~

Viktor felt guilty for how little time he had been able to spend at Durmstrang. He knew that Hermione was counting on him to watch over Harry, but it was difficult. He got the feeling that Harry wasn't happy with him for something, although he really wasn't sure what it was. He hoped that Harry didn't have a problem with his relationship with Hermione.

His musings were interrupted by the Snitch, which had finally made an appearance. He was in the place where he did most of his thinking, perched on a broom high above a Quidditch stadium. It was an exhibition game, Bulgaria's national team against the Russians. He knew that it had been fairly boring for the fans so far; his attempts to help things by doing a few Wronski feints had only succeeded in crippling the other Seeker and removing all chance of a surprise ending.

Viktor swooped down for the Snitch, actually going a little slower than usual. His coach was always telling him that he had to worry more about his fans, and what they thought, and telling him that going too fast for them to see where he was going was cheating them out of something. He didn't understand, himself. He was either playing, or not playing, this subtlety was beyond him. But, although he didn't understand, he did obey.

Viktor wished that people would be more straightforward with him. He had understood Hermione immediately; known that Quidditch wasn't the reason she cared for him. If she only cared about celebrity, she would have been pursuing Harry, but they both said that she was not. He knew that he could trust them, they were good people, and they would not mislead him.

Catching the Snitch, he landed. His fans applauded, and he listened. He was proud of what he had done, but he listened to the fans with a jaundiced ear. Too many fans had been fickle, turning from loving him to hating him when he missed a Snitch. Not that he missed one often, but the experience had stayed with him.

Turning, he marched to the locker room, ignoring the disappointment from fans who hoped that he would be staying there to sign autographs. Even with his Seeker senses, he almost didn't notice the dark figure who stood inside the room, waiting for him.

"I knew you would be first inside the room," its voice said, from underneath a dark hood. "You always are. You don't care for your fans?" The voice sounded familiar, but Viktor could not place it. There was a dark wand in the figure's gloved hand, pointed at him.

"What do you want?" The Seeker asked, harshly.

"Ahh, but that is the question for you. What do you want? Fame, celebrity, these things do not matter to you. What does, I wonder?"

"That is not for you to ask," Viktor said bluntly. "You should go, before the rest of my team pounds you into dust, as you no doubt deserve."

There was a small laugh from the figure, "That is not likely to be a problem. Have you not noticed that the rest of your team always stays to sign pictures, and give speeches? I probably have you for at least a good ten minutes before they return. Perhaps longer."

"Then, what do you wish to say?" Viktor folded his arms.

"I wish you to talk. What do you want, Seeker? What would I have to give you, to gain an ally at Durmstrang?"

Viktor laughed. "If you serve a Dark Wizard, you probably have a dozen allies at Durmstrang already. What would you need of me?"

"That is my concern. I will ask a third time, and then no more. What would you want? What would make you serve me?"

Viktor was getting angry at the presumption. He had always prided himself on not playing social games, on not wearing a mask in public and another in private. "There is nothing you cannot give me that I do not already have!" He pulled Hermione's last letter from his pocket, and held it up in his fist.

There was the sound of a contented sigh from the figure, followed by "STUPEFY!"

When Viktor woke a few moments later, his hand was empty, the letter gone. His coach and the team Healer were standing over him, looking concerned. He answered none of their questions, but merely hurried to the showers. He trusted no one, no one but his Hermione, and possibly his friend, Harry. None but them need know of this attack.

None but them, and whoever had taken his letter.


	6. Chapter 6 : A Strange Bird

CHAPTER SIX

Harry's wandering through the grounds had not gone without notice. After his points for House Martello, the Houses had all started competing. They each wanted to be sure to see him coming. He caught first-years shadowing him on his walks, and then running off to report if he started to head towards their dorms.

The Professors that noticed mostly seemed amused. Haakon mockingly criticized him for giving out Strategy advice, but then asked him to look more closely for anything that might be a problem for the school - unauthorized portkeys or animals, for example. Juergen and the Herbology Professor, Hristina Hakic, both asked him to look out for anyone trying to harvest plants from the Gardens, as unauthorized potion creation was one of the school's major problems. 

He noticed something else marking him as well. There was a brown owl in the sky, which seemed to watch him wherever he went. He didn't know whose owl it was, so he wasn't sure whether he should be concerned or not.

Girard was one of the few who didn't seem enthused by his walks. Harry didn't feel comfortable explaining his reasons for trying to find every square inch of the school, so he passed it off as being a way for him to clear his head. Girard responded by adding more work for Harry to do by asking him to help out with Viktor's Quidditch practices.

Spending more time with Viktor was very nearly the last thing that Harry wanted. The more the Bulgarian Seeker talked about Hermione, the angrier Harry got. His anger was partially directed at Viktor, who was oblivious, but mainly at Dumbledore's crowd, whom he considered responsible for his estrangement with Hermione. Even flying didn't help, since he was rarely out Viktor's sight.

The Quidditch Pitch was across the river, outside the castle grounds proper, although it apparently had the same sort of protections as inside the school. It wasn't very different from Hogwarts', except that the ground wasn't nearly as grassy. It was closer to mud, with a few tufts of grass and a few outcroppings of rock. There was also less light in pitch, as the nearby mountains provided shade during most of the times of day that the teams practiced.

The teams were almost entirely composed of fifth-year and higher students, except for the Seekers, who were almost entirely third-year students. Apparently, they often started good flyers out as Seekers, and changed their positions when they got bigger.

With eight teams, the practice schedule was grueling. Harry found himself having less and less time for his wanderings, and was afraid he was going to have to cut them short entirely. He was having more and more trouble finding anything new, anyway, as many of the passages he found just connected to each other or were blocked.

On an October evening, only about a week before the Halloween Ball and the first Quidditch match of the season, it finally occurred to him that he needed a better system of making sure he'd found everything. He looked at the map he had so far, and started trying to find wide-open spaces, places that weren't connected to anything.

He found a few places that were still largely blank on his map, which he figured might prove fruitful to search. He wasn't sure if any of them were widely used, since he hadn't even started enchanting the people-watching portion of the map, but they looked like they might contain something.

The first one, he was embarrassed to find, was a series of secret passages that led behind about half of the girls' shower rooms, with well obscured peep-holes. He wasn't sure if he should report them or not, but settled for leaving them off the map. He was sure that the Marauders would have disagreed with his decision, but felt that he would be crossing an important line if he included them.

The second area that he found seemed to lead to the Restricted Section of the Library, but it also had a dusty passage that was an offshoot to the side. Down this passage, he found a large stone door with a dingy brass plaque on it.

The plaque was labeled, if he understood the German correctly, as the Highly Restricted Section of the Library. The door had no knob and no keyhole. The hinges were not visible, and there seemed to be almost no distance between the bottom of the door and the floor. Once his map was done, he might be able to find a way in, using the charms to find the password, but that would take some time.

Harry had to wonder about the existence of this door. Even teaching here, he had some difficulty in using the Restricted Section of the Library. The normal Librarian, Master Yosh, might have been possible to hoodwink, but he didn't have access to the Restricted Section. That section had its own Librarian assigned from the Faculty - this year, it was Kirsten, and she had been less than receptive to any requests from him for books.

Granted, the Restricted Section was probably less necessary here. Many books that he remembered having to sneak out of the Library at Hogwarts, like Most Potente Potions, were in the main section here. Even books that were far too dark for Hogwarts at all, titles he would have expected only to find in Malfoy Manor or Knockturn Alley, or possibly on Snape's nightstand, were readily available for student checkout.

The Restricted Section held books that were so Dark, that not even the excessively permissive policies of Durmstrang could permit them, and books that contained secrets that were better kept unseen. From what Harry could tell, it also contained any books about prophecy or divination that were more specific than tales of dark strangers or stormy nights.

All of this made him wonder - what was so secret that it needed a Highly Restricted Section?

The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and Harry decided that he had better move on. None of the Professors had mentioned this section, and he was sure that he had not been meant to find it.

.~.~.

The last week in October was a busy week at Durmstrang. The school's mid-semester examinations were to be held all week the first week in November. Harry had to structure the examinations himself, and Girard's notes weren't much help. They indicated that he was to rely heavily on practical examinations, which required that he dedicate time for each student. With the hours that Harry was keeping, he'd started always having a Glamour ready, so that his students would always see him looking fresh, instead of the haggard wreck he felt like.

Harry was probably as tired as the students were by the time the examinations were over. Girard had already criticized him for being too generous, and he felt the strain of trying to pound lessons into students despite themselves. He knew, as Girard told him, that only by putting them under extreme strain would they learn. He also knew that his role was to be their teacher, not their friend, and he wouldn't serve this important role if he allowed them to squeak by with poor performance. He also knew, though, that he was being far tougher than his best teachers had been. He remembered learning from Flitwick, McGonagall, and Lupin; he could articulate the lessons that they had taught, could remember specific days. He couldn't remember a thing from Snape's lessons, except that wolf's bane and aconite was the same thing, and that wasn't a pleasant memory.

Strangely, where Albus and Minerva's gentle admonitions in the prior year had only made him more insistent on teaching through pain, Girard's suggestions that he be rougher on his students made him realize how little effectiveness he must have had, and how much better a teacher he could have been had he listened.

Unfortunately, this realization did little good in his present position. He was responsible for upholding Durmstrang's traditions, and Girard had made it clear that his examinations needed to be considered truly hellish to be considered a success.

And so, at the end of the week, Harry found himself with a pile of examinations and notes on student performances, trying to figure out how to score students who had merely tickled a giant rat, instead of setting it on fire as had been suggested.

He sat at his desk, head in his hands. He heard a voice, and was surprised. He hadn't heard the door.

"Your examinations are giving you trouble, yes?"

It was Kirsten. She was dressed to kill, and he wasn't sure how she'd gotten into his quarters. He was more than a little surprised at her tone - he was waiting for the knife-edged sarcasm to cut into him, but she seemed to be genuinely waiting for an answer.

"Yes," he said, reluctantly, knowing that anything he said might be used against him.

She seemed disappointed when he didn't elaborate, and the silence stretched uncomfortably for a time. He broke it, finally. "I know that I've got good practical experience, but that doesn't mean I'm a good Professor. I'm not giving up, but I wish I knew how to do this better." He'd said more than he'd meant to, and he flinched, waiting for the cutting reply.

It didn't come. "I'm sure you are doing quite well. Your students, some of them complain, which is good. You are not too soft. Others, the good students, they look forward to your classes. This is good, too. Any Professor should hope for this." There was almost a yearning in her eyes, and she flinched as he saw it. He saw a kindred thought in her mind - she, too, had just opened herself up for abuse.

He sought to change the subject. "Are you going to the Quidditch match tomorrow?"

She seemed taken aback, and a guarded look came back into her eyes. "I'm not certain. Last year, I went to every game. This year, things are different. I am very busy, I do not think I will go."

Harry wasn't sure what he'd done to put her on guard, so he sought to find something else to talk about. He wondered why she'd come, but didn't want to sound like he was complaining that she was there. "I'm sure it's rough, teaching so many different subjects. I'm amazed that you can keep them all straight; I mean," he hastened, seeing that she might take offense, "I know I'd be lost. You always seem to know who everyone is and what they're working on, though."

"Thank you," she nodded, and he breathed easier. The silence stretched on, though, and he feared to say anything to break it. Finally, she took a scroll out from her belt. "I have a letter for you. My uncle ran into a friend of yours, and he thought he would pass it along. I understand that it is not good news. If you need to talk about it, I will listen."

Harry was frankly astounded at the offer, and his jaw hung open. Before she could take it back, he responded. "Thank you, I really appreciate it. There's no one here that I've really felt I could talk to, and it means a lot for you to say that."

"What about Viktor?" She seemed to spit out the words.

He was a little confused. "He's okay, I guess, but talking to him... well, please don't tell him this." She nodded. "When I talk to him, I'm reminded of a lot of things I'd rather not think about. It isn't his fault, but he's probably the last person I'd talk to about bad news, or problems with classes, or anything like that."

She seemed amazed. "Really? I thought that you were good friends?"

"We were sort of comrades, years ago, because we'd gone through some tough times together. After that, I hadn't said two words to him until he came to offer me the job this summer."

"But, he's in love with your friend, Hermione." She pronounced it right, which Harry found amusing. "There must be some connection through that?"

"Not really," Harry shook his head, but tried to stop short of spilling quite all the secrets of his heart. "I haven't seen Hermione since she left... I mean, in over a year. I haven't even gotten a letter from her. The last time we talked, I didn't think that she'd end up with Viktor. I'm happy for her, though, if it's the right thing for both of them."

He ached to open the letter, and also ached to end the conversation. She didn't seem to sense this, though. She looked up at the cage on the wall. "Is that your owl?"

Durmstrang didn't have the kind of Owlry that Hogwarts' had, which Harry approved of. He didn't like having the whole school know when he got mail, or having people able to see if he sent something. Not that he'd done any of that since Hedwig's return, but he still appreciated the possibilities.

"Yes, that's Hedwig. She's been mine for over eight years, now. She was a gift from a dear friend." His eyes glazed.

"And what about that one," she pointed towards the open window, and Harry saw the brown owl perched on the windowsill.

"I don't know," he was surprised to see it here, but didn't feel the sense of unease that he'd usually learned to trust to tell him of danger. He did start to wonder, though, if his room had just become some kind of train station, with guests popping in as they felt like. "I've seen it around - I think it's a friend of Hedwig's."

"If it's not your bird, it probably shouldn't be here."

"Probably not," Harry said, reluctant to endanger the animal. It looked straight into his eyes, as if pleading with him. He felt a sense of peace from it, like it was the least dangerous guest he could possibly have. "But I don't think it's dangerous, and I'd rather not get it in any trouble. I mean, I'd be happy to consider it mine, if that makes any difference."

The owl cooed, softly, and stepped farther into the windowsill.

"I'm sure it will be alright, Harry." Kirsten almost smiled at him, and then shook her head. "I'll leave you to your letter. Let me know if you want to talk."

She walked out the door, and he was left there with the scroll, wondering what had brought on this drastic change.

--------------------------

A/N - There are documented cases of owls living into their elder sixties (do a Google Search on "Owl Life Span" if you want references), so while some fics have Hedwig already growing old by this point, I think she's still got a lot of life in her.


	7. Chapter 7 : A Letter from Home and Quidd...

CHAPTER SEVEN - A Letter from Home and Quidditch At Durmstrang

Harry opened the letter, and a slip of paper fell out. He ignored it for now, and looked down at the bottom first, for the signature - it was signed "Moony". A letter from Remus Lupin - that was unexpected.

The letter started off with mere pleasantries, and good wishes for his time at Durmstrang, before it turned more serious.

"Harry," Lupin wrote, "I'm afraid that Ginny Weasley's in trouble. The Ministry thinks she might know something about where you are, that she might have helped hide you. Durmstrang hasn't let word of your teaching there get out yet, but it will probably filter out at Christmas, when the students go home for their holidays. Until then, if you do have any way of talking to Ginny, don't. They're threatening to treat her as your accomplice.

"I'd also advise you to be cautious. You probably don't need to hear me say that. I know you probably don't trust anyone, and after what Dumbledore did to you, I can't blame you. I think if he'd trusted you, he could have taught you how to block Orpheus like he did your Mum and Dad, and you might have gone for it. There's nothing we can do about that now, though. They finally let Hermione come to the school after you left, and I've never seen anyone cry like she did that day. I swear she looked like she was about to kill Albus, and she ended up spending a week locked up with Minerva before she stomped off.

"Did you say anything to Snape before you left? He gave me a year's supply of wolfsbane potion, and hugged me like a brother. Really uncomfortable. I don't hate him anymore, haven't really since I was a kid, but I don't like him like that. Weird."

"Don't try to write me back. Owls can't find you where you're at, so Hedwig would have to stay here with me. I'm afraid you're on your own for real, now.

"With love, Moony"

Harry felt oddly moved by the sound of Hermione's protests on his behalf. That must have been just before she wrote Viktor, asking him to help out Harry. He had thought that she had moved on, but maybe she hadn't, and Viktor was still reading too much into her letters. Or maybe she did care about Viktor, and she just thought of herself as his friend, but he was still happy she hadn't abandoned him.

He picked up the slip of paper, and saw that it was an article from the Daily Prophet about Ginny. It stopped just short of accusing her in Falco's near murder, and hinted that she deserved at least as much punishment as the real perpetrator, who had fled justice.

He wanted to talk to someone about this, but he couldn't talk to Kirsten. He settled on Hedwig, instead. At least she wouldn't do more than nip him in response.

He read the letter again, aloud, to her. "What do you think Hedwig? Is there any way I could have possibly messed up my friends' lives any more than I already have?"

Hedwig and the strange owl, which Harry had almost forgotten about, both cooed, and Hedwig came over to nip at his fingers. He stood up, after a moment, and walked over to the speaking tube, ordering up some mouse treats before he went down to dinner. After all, he hoped to keep the only two friends he had left.

He had to wonder how, if Hedwig couldn't find her way back to him again, she had found him this time. It was very convenient for Remus that Harry had no way of asking him that without the risk of losing his owl.

~.~.~

The first day of Quidditch this season was between last year's first and second place finishers, House Dalmuti and House Tepes. It was a brutal game, with the bludgers seeming especially nasty, and the fouls flying freely.

Harry noticed that each team had a full set of reserves on the sidelines, in full dress, and he was surprised when he saw them being brought in. "Durmstrang rules," Kirsten volunteered, and that was when he first noticed that she'd taken the seat next to him. "They're not as aggressive in calling fouls, and we kept having games decided by which team's Seeker was knocked out first. They decided that it was better to bend the rules and allow substitutes than to try to change Durmstrang students."

Harry nodded in appreciation. "You seem to know a lot about Quidditch."

"I used to come to all the practices and games here. I listen well," she said, without making it sound too much like a barb at Harry.

"I'm sure you do." He didn't respond by counter-attacking. This new Kirsten was quite a change.

The match went fairly long for a school game - about two hours later, the score tied at a hundred, Harry realized that Kirsten had started leaning against him. She must have done it gradually, or he would have noticed sooner, but it felt nice.

He tried not to start too much, but she noticed his reaction. "I'm sorry," she said, looking bashful. "I did not mean to bother you."

"No, it's OK." He could hear the titter of students' laughter behind him, and figured that someone else had noticed. "These games can get pretty tiring. I'm happy to serve as a pillow."

"Do you think they'll catch the Snitch soon?"

"Well, they've missed it a few times already - I wonder if they're waiting to push the score a little higher, or trying to give the bludgers a chance to bruise up the competition."

"Really? You've seen it?"

"Sure. It's right behind the Dalmuti goal post right now, on the right hand side."

"I can't see it, but I trust you," she said. Harry was tempted to point, but that was generally considered bad etiquette at Quidditch matches. "Wait! I see it now. Viktor always used to..." She trailed off.

Harry started to connect the dots, and suddenly realized why she'd stopped coming to Quidditch matches. He didn't feel like probing just yet, though. He was the last one who could give relationship advice.

"I've gotten pretty used to spotting them," he said, trying to continue on the topic rather than sidetracking to things he felt were better unsaid. "For a long time, it was just part of who I was."

"What happened?" she asked, and he realized he'd managed to steer from one uncomfortable topic to another.

"Quidditch was something I did with a friend. He died. I couldn't play anymore after that."

"Oh." His direct statements seemed to have knocked her off guard, and she went back to watching the game, as did he. Neither Seeker had reacted to the Snitch yet. Harry wondered if Viktor had seen it. He looked for the Bulgarian, and saw him down at the base of the field, but Viktor didn't seem to be watching the game that intently.

He was staring right back at Harry, and seemed unconcerned that Harry had met his gaze. There was a look of fury on his face, and Harry wasn't sure what he'd done to merit it, but assumed it had something to do with Viktor's love life. After all, Viktor's love life was the thing that seemed most able to keep him angry.

As he looked, he felt Kirsten tense next to him. He looked at her, and saw that she was now glaring at Viktor. Harry was tempted to start shouting and pointing at the Snitch to break the discomfort, but she chose something more direct. She turned away from Viktor's glare, sniffling, and then locked eyes with Harry. "He thinks he can own me, even after leaving me for someone else."

"I'm sorry," he said, candidly. "I told you before, I'm not really Viktor's friend. I'd like to be yours, though."

She looked him in the eyes, and then grabbed him, planting a loud kiss on his unsuspecting lips.

There was a huge gasp from around him, and he assumed that he was going to spend the next few months as the butt of many students' jokes, but then he heard a scream. Standing, Harry saw that a dark cloud had formed over the other end of the field, and it was slowly advancing onto the pitch. He saw the team trying to flee the cloud. As the Dalmuti Seeker flew out of it, he seemed to be having trouble breathing, and his broom wavered from side to side, then headed straight for one of the stone walls on the side, over fifty feet above the ground.

Harry stood, grabbing his wand. "Accio Broom!" He shouted, and the student and broom both flew to his seat, where he caught them. Kirsten pulled the student away, and started to apply first aid charms, but Harry began to march through the flood of panicking students, straight for the cloud. Above and behind him, the strange brown owl shadowed his movements. 

Harry had seen something like this before, in his sixth year. The favorite weapons of the Death Eaters had always been ones that terrified people, and this was no exception. The cloud had, at it's heart, at least three Dark Wizards, who were feeding it with their life forces, although it would happily drink of anyone else's it happened to touch.

Girard caught up with Harry. "Professor Potter, I would say that this is your area of expertise."

"Yes, Headmaster. I'll take care of it."

"You have my full permission to use whatever means are necessary, whatever they may be - including your so-called Unforgivables."

Harry wasn't giving him his full attention - he always used whatever means were necessary, and thought about it later, and official permission wasn't going to make him do any more to save the students. The part about the Unforgivables, though, reached him. He could use Avada Kedavra - if he managed to kill one of the three Wizards at the heart, the other two would be sucked dry by the cloud before it dissipated. He knew he could cast the Killing curse; it would be so easy to just do it...

He continued trying to fight through the crowd of students to get a clearer shot, before finally grabbing the broom from one of the Chasers that had crashed and heading into the middle of the field.

The cloud was immense, as wide as the field and growing, and there were winds whistling inside. The Quidditch balls were occasionally visible, whipped by the winds into and out of the cloud. Harry wasn't sure if any of the students were missing, but he thought they had all gotten out of the way safely.

As he prepared his curse, he saw one of the bludgers fly out and miss him, before flying back to the cloud. He was grateful it had missed, he didn't have much strength to spare, and he thought the Durmstrang bludgers were a little over strength. Then he realized it hadn't missed everyone, just him. He saw the owl plummet past, trying to control its descent, its right wing twisted at an odd angle.

The wind whistled, and he heard Girard shouting, augmented by a Sonorous charm. "Now! You must do it now!"

He pulled his wand back, and his lip curled, as he let his hatred for Dark Wizards flow through him. "Avada --"

He heard a shout as he spoke the first word, and he stopped. "Harry!" It was coming from the cloud. He couldn't identify the voice, it was more anguished than any he'd ever heard, but it sounded like a woman.

His hatred turned to fear, and his curse fizzled. He pointed his wand at the middle of the cloud, and started firing off Stupifys, Jelly-Legs, and Expelliarmus, until the cloud suddenly vanished.

At its heart were four wizards and the poor crippled owl, all knocked out. Harry recognized three of the four wizards - Remus Lupin, and Mr. and Mrs. Van Hoek - Falco's parents. He didn't know the fourth, but as he was wearing the dark robes of a Death Eater, Harry assumed he was the one who'd been casting the spell with the Van Hoek's. He quickly took the wands from the three, and shoved them in his pocket, but he figured that he could finish with them later.

Remus looked utterly defeated. His face was bruised, and his arms were scarred, with silver-plated bands holding them together. Harry quickly severed the bands and threw the pieces away, and picked up the werewolf, his wand still in hand.

The owl cooed, and Harry looked at her. "I'm sorry, girl, but I'm not sure what I can do for you." The owl looked at him in great pain, and he couldn't just leave her. He flicked the wand at the owl carefully, and spoke the words to levitate it up and on top of Remus.

Carrying Remus back to the Castle wasn't easy, and Harry reflected that he might have been remiss in his exercise recently. It would have been much worse, however, if Remus' time away from Hogwarts hadn't been so hard on him. As it was, Harry thought he had probably lost a third of his weight since they'd last met.

Getting back to the Castle, Harry took one of the passages he'd mapped out up to the Hospital Ward. The Ward was on the third floor of the Castle, and it was about twice the size of the one at Hogwarts. Reflecting on the carnage at the Quidditch match, that probably wasn't excessive.

Many were calling for the attention of the Healers - there were two of them, who normally took turns for each other, but both were on duty now. Harry stuck Lupin on one of the beds, and tried to Ennervate him. He didn't wake up, but he seemed to be sleeping more easily, so Harry just grabbed the nearest Healer and gave him a synopsis of the situation, cutting in front of a number of bruised children in order to do so.

The Healer, Maxwell, didn't seem taken aback at all by the fact that he had a werewolf in his ward, and assured Harry that it was another three weeks until the next full moon. Checking on Lupin, he seemed to think that he would probably sleep for at least another day, but that there was no serious harm.

While he was checking on Lupin, he also glanced at the owl. "Is she yours?"

Harry nodded. "She got hurt out there, too. Do you have anything for her?"

The Healer pointed his wand at her wing and muttered a phrase, and it straightened. The owl seemed extremely grateful, and immediately flew off through an open door and out of the way.

Harry shrugged at the Healer's look. "She's pretty independent minded."

"I see. I'll be sure to let you know if his condition changes." The Healer turned, and it was clear that Harry had been dismissed.

He didn't give Lupin quite the treatment that he had Hermione - in fact, he left the Hospital Ward immediately. He wasn't sure why he wasn't sitting by the man's bed, the last of his father's best friends, but he didn't want to overanalyze himself.

Instead, he walked the halls, until it became clear he was on his way to Kirsten's quarters. Talk about something that doesn't need analyzing, he thought. Harry knocked on her door, and was grateful when she opened it.

"Are you alright?" They both said together, and then both laughed.

She answered first. "I'm fine, Harry. Thank you for caring. But you; I wanted to help you, but Girard made me leave."

"I guess he was pretty confidant that I could take them on," Harry said, although he had a nagging feeling that there was something else going on. After eight years of having a Headmaster who hid the truth from you, it wasn't hard to believe that there was another here. Perhaps it was a prerequisite of being Headmaster, it went with the beard and spectacles.

"Perhaps that's it." She didn't seem any more convinced than he. "I'm glad you're alright. Harry, I wanted to apologize about... what I did. It was so childish, I know, but I thought that maybe I could make Viktor feel something."

Harry had figured that one out for himself. "I'd feel mad at being used, but given the target, I can't bring myself to mind. I did have a question, though."

"Yes?"

"Are you going to the Halloween Ball tomorrow night? And, perhaps more importantly, is Viktor?"

~.~.~

Viktor paced in his room. His eyes were shut, as he navigated by memory and feel. He should have been glad to see Harry getting along with Kirsten. Hermione had hinted that her friend had experienced relationship problems in the last few years. Seeing him starting a friendship was something that helped ease Viktor's mind, even if it was with Kirsten. He bit his lip. Should he warn Harry what he was getting into? Or should he just hope that Harry would be more successful than he had been? He was furious with Kirsten for putting him in this position -- having to choose between hurting Harry by telling him about Kirsten, or making it possible for her to hurt him later.

Viktor and Kirsten had been friends for years, and they had seemed like the perfect couple to most of Durmstrang. The news that made him decide to finally break things off had been sudden.

He remembered the scene well. He had stormed into Kirsten's office, scaring the wits out of a pair of first year students, who quickly left. His lip had been protruding, his long, black hair streaming out behind him. She had looked scared of him.

He had accused her. She had denied it. He had offered proof. She had asked for trust. He had refused her. She had begged him for another chance. He had stormed from the room. She had returned the ring he gave her.

Hermione's note had shown up the next week, and Viktor had grabbed to her friendship like a lifeline.

Today, seeing Kirsten with Harry, reminded Viktor of her betrayal. It reminded him that he had to be careful about who he trusted, that giving trust was an invitation to be hurt.

He abruptly stopped as he ran into something. He opened his eyes - his coffee table had moved a foot to the right, where it was in his path. He hadn't left it there.

Someone cleared his throat, and Viktor raised his eyes to the couch. There was a dark robed man there, sitting motionless and silent. Viktor stepped back -- he hadn't heard even a breath from his intruder. He asked brusquely, "What do you want?"

The intruder's voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well. It was faint and distorted, and Viktor had to strain to make out the words. "You lied to me, when last we met. You said that there was nothing that you wanted." The intruder held his hand up, revealing Hermione's letter.

Viktor was angry. He growled as he reached for the man's hand, "Give that back to me!" The intruder relinquished the letter, seeming amused.

"Of course, I've taken all I need from it. Now, shall we talk business?"

"There is nothing that you have that I want," Viktor said, "Leave, and do not bother me again."

The intruder steepled his hands, and although his eyes were hidden by his hood, he seemed to be staring into Viktor. "I will leave, but consider this. You may not have all that you expect. If you were to find that your Hermione was leaning towards the arms of another, how would you react? Would you be willing to fight for her?"

"That will never happen," Viktor spat back, angrily. His face was transformed, his veins ugly, protruding on his forehead and neck. His bottom lip was sticking out, and his hair was standing on end. "She would never betray me."

"I have my answer," the intruder said, and he stood, turning his back on Viktor as he walked towards the door. Viktor found his anger deflating, in the face of the man's apparent lack of interest. As the intruder reached the door, he turned, looking at Viktor. "You are blessed with a quality that is rare today, the ability to see what you want to see despite all evidence to the contrary. Such conviction in the face of the obvious is usually repugnant to me, such faith anathema to all that I trust. In you, however," the man finished with a bow, "I can think of nothing that would serve me better. Good day."

The intruder continued out the door, shutting it behind him.

Viktor was lost by the man's fancy speech, which had been entirely in English. He could tell that he was being laughed at, but he couldn't understand why. What was laughable about trusting in one so pure?

He was disturbed by something else, though, and it bothered him in his sleep that night. Why hadn't he stopped the man from leaving?

-----

A/N - Because I know someone will feel compelled to check - cal(1) indicates that Halloween 1999 was on a Sunday. The US Naval Observatory indicates that there was a full moon on 10/24/99.


	8. Chapter 8 : Action and Reaction

**CHAPTER EIGHT - Action and Reaction**

Girard seemed livid that Harry had left the Death Eaters on the field, even to save his friend. The fact that he'd taken their wands only mollified him a little.

"I told you to take all measures to stop their attacks, and you left them there on a field! What if they had allies, what would have happened? They could have escaped and tried this again."

Harry weathered his verbal assault without blinking or arguing, and his patience seemed to anger Girard even more. The criminals hadn't escaped, and had been picked up by the local equivalent of Aurors while Harry was gone. Which made Harry wonder enough to ask Girard, finally interrupting his tirade, which was currently on the stupidity of a Jelly-Legs curse against a full grown Death Eater.

"So, Headmaster, where are they? The Death Eaters, I mean."

Girard stopped, and looked at him intently. "Why do you want to know?"

Harry didn't think the truth would work here, given the Headmaster's mood, so he tried something else. "I want to make sure they get what they deserve, of course."

"Ahh, good. So you do have some spirit in you. I was starting to wonder. Do not worry, we are not like the English - we will not just lock them away in a prison guarded by their friends, and wait for them to start raving and calling for their parents. Durmstrang has something much better." Girard was almost drooling as he said this last word, and Harry felt any impression he'd had that Girard was similar to Albus snap. For all Albus' faults, he would never sound so anxious for someone to be punished - in fact, he would be far more likely to lament that it had come to pass.

Girard seemed to have lost track of his tirade, and finally let Harry go, with a final admonition that he not take such chances again. Harry was exhausted, and wasted no time in collapsing on his bed, not even worrying about the dinner that he'd missed. Tomorrow was Halloween, but Harry didn't feel much like celebrating.

Harry had strange dreams that night, which left him tossing and turning. Late in the night he was woken by a sound. The brown owl was next to him in bed, staring at his eyes earnestly.

Harry felt a little ridiculous in his current position. The owl seemed to be trying to tell him something with its eyes. "I don't suppose you ever watch the telly, do you? I remember something about a show named Lassie." The owl bit his arm, not quite drawing blood. Then it cocked its head melodramatically.

Harry listened, really listened, and he heard the shuffling of boots on the floor. He leapt out of bed, looking disheveled, but at least not needing to take the time to dress. There was a glass of pumpkin juice sitting on his table and a ham sandwich, which Harry wolfed down as he got his wand. He filed them away as part of the general mystery of the comings and goings of his room, but didn't spare much thought now.

Opening his door cautiously, he didn't see any movement. Harry walked carefully down the stairs, his footsteps light, trying to find a sign of whoever was walking the halls at night.

Listening for the boot steps, Harry tracked them down towards the Great Hall before they suddenly stopped. He pushed forward, but a terrible scene awaited him. Under the large Dark Mark hanging in the ceiling were perhaps a dozen Death Eaters and half again as many students. The whole of the Great Hall was under a Silence Charm, apparent by the silent screams of students being Cruciated inside. He walked into the area of the Charm, and the sudden sound of screaming almost deafened him.

The Death Eaters hadn't noticed him yet, but one of the students had. There was a pleading in the eyes of Sarcos Nagarian, who was kneeling at the feet of a masked Dark Wizard, obviously wracked with pain.

Harry felt a rage growing inside him, more potent and awful than he had before. These were his students, and they depended on him to save them. He could see an unconscious first year that he recognized as one of those that had doubted his abilities, and something snapped. 

"Crucio!" He shouted, pointing at the Death Eater who towered over Nagarian, and his anger became real. He could feel it as something real, something almost physical, as it streamed from his wand towards the waiting Death Eater.

The masked wizard screamed, and fell to his knees, and Sarcos managed to stand. Now all the wizards were moving, and Harry saw eleven wands pointing in his direction.

Harry started running, becoming a moving target. He had to drop the Cruciatus to do it, but the wizard he'd pointed at had already fallen unconscious. Either he had doled out far more pain than the Death Eater was capable of, or his victim had a lower pain threshold than an eleven year-old Durmstrang student. Harry wasn't sure which was more disquieting.

Time seemed to slow, as curses flew through the air. Harry pointed his wand almost casually at one of the Death Eaters. "Expelliarmus!" Again, he felt the anger leap through him, and he saw the Death Eater fly backwards into the huge pipe organ with a crash, his wand falling to the ground. It looked like the Death Eater was tangled in a set of woodwinds, but Harry didn't stop to watch his handiwork. He was too busy trying to block more curses.

Harry was athletic, but not a gymnast, and as tempted as he was to act like someone in a Muggle movie, flipping and tumbling behind an obstacle, he settled with just running as fast as he could towards the head table. He didn't quite duck every curse aimed at him, but none of them were fatal, and he managed to deal with their effects before they became an issue.

From behind the head table, Harry saw that the Death Eaters were now heading for him. He concentrated on the Silence Charm that pervaded the room. "Finate Incantatum!" The silence was broken, and he hoped that reinforcements would soon arrive.

The Death Eaters didn't seem to be interested in stopping, though. Two of them started to levitate the table out of the way, while another three sprayed flames at him. He couldn't just sit here and wait for the cavalry, especially as they might not be lucky enough to have an owl alert them to the noise.

The Wizards who were attacking Harry were no longer Cruciating the students, and some of the students had started to recover. One of the witches from Martello rolled out of the circle, escaping the notice of the wizards. She rushed to the pipe organ, where one of the Death Eaters still struggled for safety, and she played a few notes, which Harry recognized as part of the call to assembly.

Her actions might have called for reinforcements, but they also brought her to the notice of the Death Eaters. Shouted words and a flash of green, and the young witch tumbled to the ground. 

Time started to slow again. Harry had just lost a student, and if it weren't him behind the wand that had done it, that didn't matter. He roared, and jumped under the table, which was still rising, dodging the flames from the wizards that were trying to broil him.

He was in constant motion now, speaking out charms and curses in a steady stream. His wand swished and flicked, and one of the wizards was off the ground, ten feet up in the air, and then crashing down on a pair of his fellows before they could react.

Sarcos had his wand out as well, and he was following Harry's lead. He was lurching, more than running, but still moving, trying not to present too much of a target. He tried levitating one of the Death Eaters, but couldn't quite get him off the ground. It was enough to change the direction of the stream of fire though, which touched the robes of one of the other attackers, setting him on fire. 

The strain of casting the spell almost exhausted the young boy, who was already worn from his torture and the unaccustomed hour, but he kept trying to move, firing nuisance spells towards the Death Eaters at every opportunity.

Shortly, he wasn't alone. A few other students had managed to stand, or at least sit up, and had their wands pointed at the Death Eaters. They couldn't stop them, but the distraction that they caused proved deadly.

Harry was grateful for the actions of the youths, but determined to draw the fire of the Death Eaters. He'd been marked for death since before his birth, and could think of no better way to meet his end than protecting his students.

His wand spat fire and light, and wizards tumbled into each other. Some crumpled to the ground in pain as he Cruciated them, but he rarely took the time for the powerful spell, instead using the enemy as Bludgers and knocking them into each other. They seemed to have trouble reacting, as their cowls and masks cut down their vision to the point where anything attacking from the side was unseen.

By the time Haakon came roaring into the room with a group of seventh years, a huge axe wielded in one hand and wand in the other, the remaining Death Eaters were huddled behind tables, fighting purely defensively. Haakon cleaved straight through one of the tables and into the man behind it, who screamed and held his arm. The others dropped their wands, the brutality of pure melee combat more horrific than the relatively clean magical fighting that they'd been participating in so far. Harry felt it hard to stop fighting, difficult to resist just slaying the men as they stood out from behind their cover, but the cries of hurt students brought his senses back to something more important than causing pain.

Harry asked Haakon to take care of the Death Eaters - he wasn't sure what Girard would do with them, and although he was curious, he suspected he didn't really want to know. He grabbed a number of the seventh years, and had them help him charm the students that couldn't walk and float them up to the Hospital Ward.

He grasped the hand of Sarcos, then turned to the room, and identified each of the students that had managed to fight by name, including the one that lay dead by the organ. "Three points for each of you, for your courage and creative use of Magic." Then he helped those who could walk trudge behind the floating members of their class up to the Hospital Ward.

.~.~.

Harry slept in on Halloween morning. He had managed to avoid Girard last night, and wasn't looking forward to seeing him in the Great Hall in the morning. The Headmaster hadn't seemed pleased with Harry's combats during the day, and he didn't think he would be any more pleased with the evening's activities. When he finally did wake up, there was a plate of food waiting for him on the table.

Harry was starting to wonder if Dobby had followed him here. Someone was certainly taking care of him. He supposed it might have been Kirsten, since she'd already shown an aptitude for entering without knocking, but they'd both made it pretty clear that they were only showing each other attention to tweak Victor.

Sitting down at the table, Harry was surprised to see a Daily Prophet rolled up on the table next to his food. He hadn't read a whole paper in months, and he wondered what was so important that someone would sneak it in.

He found it at the bottom of the first page. They had gone ahead and conducted a farce of a trial for Harry, without him being present, and had convicted him on every count. It looked like a few new counts had been added along the way, and as near as he could tell, half a dozen Dementors would have to kiss him to make his sentence complete.

While not totally unexpected, seeing it in black and white made it all the worse. He felt anger warring with despair, but anger seemed determined to win out. It was helped along by a companion piece, stating that the Ministry had decided to try Ginny. The trial date was still far away -- they wouldn't start until after the new year -- but she'd be held in a Ministry cell until then. 

The plate and cup suddenly shattered, pelting the room with ceramics, pumpkin juice, and eggs. Hedwig looked at him fiercely, as if he was a particularly annoying mouse that was living on borrowed time, but the other owl just hid her head.

The task of cleaning up the room managed to absorb his anger, until all that was left was the despair. He repaired the dishes, and put them back on the dumbwaiter to return to the kitchen. It occurred to him that the dumbwaiter was actually fairly large, and he wondered whether or not it was the way that Kirsten had entered his room. He realized, though, that it was far more likely that she had somehow levitated to the window, since he couldn't see her going to the trouble to sneak into the kitchens and squeeze herself into a ball just to sneak up to his room. 

Kirsten was back on his mind, and he remembered that he'd agreed to escort her to the ball this afternoon. He checked outside his door, and sure enough, there were a set of fine dress robes there. She'd said that she had family outside the castle that could get him a set; he could scarcely apparate to Madame Malkin's to pick them up himself.

It was still hours until then, though, and they'd agreed to appear on the late side, to make sure that Victor saw them enter. Harry didn't have much else to do, so he decided to just stay in his room until it was time to pick up Kirsten.

Harry could think of a number of people he'd much rather be going with, and better reasons. Tweaking Victor was fine, but he would rather have had someone on his arm that cared about him, not just someone who seemed prepared to tolerate him.

He missed Ginny. He wished he'd been more politic with regards to the ball. Even if it was improper, he could have promised to save her at least one dance. She was going to suffer for her friendship and for words unsaid, and might pay a hefty price. He wasn't in love with Ginny, but he liked her, and couldn't help but wish he could see her smiling face again. He knew that the way he hadn't made his feelings clear had hurt her.

He missed Hermione even more. She had been his best friend, and that friendship hadn't gone away. She hadn't been able to write him or talk to him in over a year, but he still felt like she was out there somewhere, and he was sure that she still cared about him, if only as a friend. There might have been something more than friendship though, if he'd only said something sooner. Who had she been able to turn to in the last year? If she'd called out to Victor, whom could he blame but himself?

Unsaid words. It struck Harry that this was the same painful topic that he'd castigated Dumbledore for. While Harry could argue that his words had been about his feelings, not facts, they'd still led to pain, both his own and others.

Was he any better than Albus? He had chosen to avoid risking his own pain, to keep the uneasy peace of what he knew. It was so difficult to say at the time, but all the pain of the last year came down to his inability to act, to just say what needed to be said and let the chips fall where they may.

He remembered Dumbledore's statement in his first year, or at least the sense of it. The Headmaster had said that truth was a beautiful thing, but something to be treated with caution. Harry thought that Albus had used rather too much caution, and not enough appreciation of the beauty.

Harry pulled out a scroll and a quill, and started to write.

"Dear Hermione," he wrote. "I'm sorry I haven't written before. As I understand it, I won't be able to get Hedwig back after I send this letter, so please take good care of her. There's another owl that's sort of adopted me, so I'm not totally alone.

"I wanted to let you know how much the time we spent last summer meant to me. I know why you had to leave, and I wish you'd been able to tell me about it instead of running off. That's not your fault, though, I've been much worse at telling you anything important.

"I've realized something pretty profound, and if you were here, you'd probably just smack me upside the head and say it was about time. I blamed Albus for not telling me everything, but he's no worse than me. There were plenty of times I thought I could handle everything on my own, and I blamed him for not telling me enough that I could, while I kept my thoughts to myself.

"There's so much I wish I could have told you. I hear that you're probably with someone else now, and I hope you're happy. You're a great witch, Hermione, and I wish I'd told you just how much I appreciate you to your face.

"There's a ball here, and I thought about Hogwarts again.

"Before I get all maudlin, there's something else I wanted to ask. Ginny was a great friend last year, and I think she's going to get in trouble for it. She didn't do anything that they're saying, but I don't think the Ministry would take my word for it. Take care of her for me, if you can? I don't think she'd like me saying it, but she's like a little sister to me.

"With Love, Harry."

Harry wished he could say more, but he couldn't think of what to say. He wasn't sure enough of his feelings to just say "I Love You," but he'd said almost as much in his letter as it was. He wrapped up the scroll, and tied it to Hedwig. "I don't think you'll be able to get back to me after you deliver this, girl, so don't try. Just take it to Hermione, and stay with her. Take good care of her for me, will you?"

Hedwig nipped his fingers and started to take flight, before returning to her stand.

"C'mon girl, I need you to deliver this for me."

Hedwig just stared at him.

He sighed, and started to reach for her leg. He'd just have to see if Victor would send it with his next letter, although he would be surprised if Victor would even speak to him.

She nipped his hand, hard enough to draw blood, and jumped back.

Harry was confused, but decided that he could take a hint. Maybe she just needed some more rest before heading back to England.

He grabbed a towel and held it on his hand. Despite his plans to stay in the room, he decided that perhaps he could take the time to stop by the Hospital Ward and check on the students, and while he was there, he could see if either of the Healers could tend to his owl bite.

-----

A/N: Soundtrack for the first part of this chapter - the Matrix Soundtrack. Better yet, just turn on the movie and listen to the scene at the ground level of the building that Neo and Trinity storm.

Dumbledore's quote, referenced above in Harry's imperfect memory, is from Harry Potter and the Sorceror's/Philospher's Stone. In the US edition I have, it says:

"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing,

and should therefore be treated with great caution."

I think there's probably enough foreshadowing that most people will be yelling at Harry by the end of the chapter, convinced that he's an idiot. I generally have that reaction to him about a third of the way through the canon books, so I don't think it's out of character.


	9. Chapter 9 : The Headmaster's Office

**CHAPTER NINE - The Headmaster's Office**

The Halloween Ball at Durmstrang was much more formal than at Hogwarts, and less entertaining, unless you counted the part where Viktor stormed off during a particularly slow dance. Kirsten and Harry both had to control their giggles at his reaction, although Harry also felt annoyed. If Viktor felt like he had a relationship with Hermione, he didn't have much place acting jealous over Kirsten.

What made the night for him, though, was what happened after the ball. After leaving Kirsten at her door with an uncomfortable handshake, he returned to his room. His door was locked as it usually was, but it didn't take him long to notice that something was different.

There was a single rose on the table, next to a letter. He recognized the handwriting on it - Hermione's. Hedwig was still in her cage, but the other owl was gone, and so was the scroll on Hedwig's ankle. He assumed that the other owl had delivered the letter, but wondered how it could possibly have gotten to England by now, let alone brought a response. What was the air speed of a laden post owl, anyway?

The letter was short, but to the point. She didn't rise to the occasion to tell him off, she just told him that she cared for him, too. It wasn't explicitly romantic, but the rose said it without words, he thought. The letter also told him that she didn't know what was happening to Ginny, but that she would try to get word to someone who could help. It closed by telling him that Viktor was reading too much into her letters, and that she'd asked him to pass a number of messages on to Harry, which he obviously hadn't. 

Harry felt like he was walking on air, and even the sudden knock on the door couldn't snap him out of it. He went to the door, with a blissful look on his face.

One of the Healers stood there, Master Martens. He seemed fairly happy, as well, and his message was one that Harry had almost forgotten that he was expecting. "He's awake."

Harry almost ran up to the Hospital Ward, and found Lupin was just barely conscious. He rasped out a request for food and drink, which was quickly provided, and then listened as Harry told him of the last few months. They were in a corner of the room, enclosed by curtains, and the Healer had let them be.

Apparently Lupin had been captured during the last full moon, when he was physically tough, but not magically able to defend himself. They had questioned him about many things, but seemed to already know where to find Harry. The werewolf was alarmed by this, but felt that it was not, in itself, a disaster. The semester was halfway over already, and students would be returning home in little over a month, at which point the news of Harry's whereabouts would probably be spread publicly anyway.

Remus was tight-lipped about his own activities, but said that he'd found a prophecy that had him concerned. Harry was interested to hear more, and Remus agreed to tell him what he knew. He seemed to have heard of Harry's dispute with Dumbledore in fair detail, and he promised not to hold anything back from Harry that wasn't entirely personal in nature.

Harry wasn't sure what that covered, but he trusted Lupin. The man had saved his life more than once, at risk of his own, and had shown a trust for him that few others had ever considered. He wouldn't shrink from asking questions if he felt something was being left out, but he felt that he would be betraying Lupin if he acted like he expected to be disappointed.

Lupin quickly outlined the prophecy. He didn't have the text of it, and couldn't repeat it from memory, but it involved something called the Ninth and the rise of the next major Dark Wizard.

The prophecy indicated that the Dark Wizard's rise could be prevented by preventing any of a number of events from happening. One of them was to happen at Durmstrang, and involved the Ninth. Remus had been talking with someone who hinted that he knew what it was, but he had disappeared without explanation.

.~.~.

It wasn't until after the Ball that Harry really noticed the change in atmosphere after the attacks. There was, if possible, even more paranoia in the air. Haakon had assigned all of his sixth and seventh year students to patrol the Castle, so that there were always people on duty.

Girard seemed to be avoiding him, which suited Harry just fine. He had used Cruciatus, so Girard couldn't complain that he was soft, even if he hadn't used the Killing Curse. He didn't think that would stop the Headmaster from complaining, however.

Remus didn't have much else to say about the prophecy, and he really couldn't stay at Durmstrang. There wasn't anywhere safe for him to spend the next full moon, and he didn't trust anyone at Durmstrang but Harry to keep him safe during those hours anyway. He stayed only a few days, and then left, promising to keep in touch better. Harry was sad to see him go, but he again had a mission, and it tied nicely in with what he had already decided to do.

Harry decided to take the time to complete his map. There were only a few places that he hadn't been yet, and he hoped to finish them off. He didn't know who or what the Ninth was, and he hadn't found anything helpful yet in the Library, even with the help of nightly break-ins into the Restricted Section.

It took Harry almost a week of dedicated searching to find a way to the kitchens other than the dumbwaiter, which he'd decided not to use, at least for purposes of the map. He didn't think he needed to provide future students with a way into the Dark Arts professor's quarters, and couldn't see trying out the rest of the floor's dumbwaiters either. While he could see the humor in suddenly appearing in Kirsten's room, he didn't think she would. Any of the other professors would be likely to just shove him back in and send him back to the kitchens.

The kitchens were large, and crewed with enslaved house-elves. They didn't seem as happy to see him as the ones at Hogwarts always did; they just cringed. Harry beat a hasty retreat, just taking the time to thank them for doing so well with the food. He didn't want to scare them, after all. Harry thought about Hermione - while he hadn't thought S.P.E.W. was that useful back at Hogwarts, he wouldn't have minded it here.

There were only two places left that he wondered about. The first was the Highly Restricted Section, which he couldn't worry about too much until after he'd finished the spells, and the second was the pair of portals that led to the sorting ritual, which he didn't think he could enter safely. Harry decided to continue with the enchantment process without worrying about the portals, since he wasn't planning on giving the map to anyone who hadn't already started at Durmstrang.

With that done, it was time to start the actual enchantment, and that meant that he was starting to spend more time in his room. Some parts of the enchantment were potions that had to be left brewing, while others were spells that took time to take full effect, so Harry found himself bored for long portions of the day.

The weeks started to go by, and Harry was enjoying them more than he had since leaving Hogwarts. He was busy, with his duties as a Professor eating most of his days, and his other work taking his nights. He also saved back a little time for some guilty fun at Viktor's expense, meeting with Kirsten to walk through the Gardens in the moonlight or to work in the Library together.

Kirsten had been much nicer to Harry, but he couldn't think of her as a friend. It may have been that Harry's circle of friends was historically quite dangerous to get into - you almost had to be able to start a conversation with "Well, Harry and I would have died then, but..." There was a certain amount of trust and openness that was built up between people who had almost been killed by an evil wizard together, especially when they'd faced the danger intentionally.

He didn't have that openness with Kirsten, and he couldn't think of what they had as a friendship. It was better than nothing, though, and at least it gave him someone to exchange stories about students, or to ask about current events in the world at large.

Kirsten seemed grateful for the attention. Harry was sure she didn't think of him as anything more than an acquaintance either, but she also seemed to be nearly friendless in the castle. Viktor mostly avoided her, and he didn't see any of the other Professors openly talking with her.

When it came time for the Yule break, he was sad to see that she was going to be taking a holiday. He was, of course, staying at the school. He couldn't interrupt the enchantments that he had going -- as it was, it looked like it might stretch into February before they were complete.

He had just said his goodbyes to her at the gate, when Girard came up to him. He didn't look happy. "Professor Potter. There's something I'd like to talk to you about." He turned, and stalked away.

Harry followed, wondering what was wrong this time.

A few minutes later, he was in the Headmaster's office.

"It has come to my attention that someone has been rifling through books in the Restricted Section of the Library. Would you know anything about this?"

Harry started. "What kinds of books?"

"We only know about one, which we had left enchanted with an Alarm spell, although there may be others."

Harry hadn't really thought he'd need to explain his forays into the Restricted Section, and hadn't prepared much of an alibi. He chose his words carefully. "I did go into the Restricted Section, and reviewed a book called the Necronomicon, with Kirsten's approval. I said the words she told me to, though, so that should be all right. Was that the book?"

"No, that wasn't it. The book was one of the Histories of Durmstrang, a slightly more complete version than the one I have in my office. That's why I thought we should ask you about it."

"Well, I can't think of anyone who would have needed it, but I can certainly see if anything surfaces. Was there any harm done?"

"No, I don't believe so. The edition in the Library has little that would be important, at any rate."

"Are there other editions, Headmaster? I mean, other than the one in your office? I'd be interested in learning any more that I could."

"Be careful, Professor. There is knowledge in these books that is not meant for your eyes yet. While there might be some things that would profit you, I must forbid you at all costs from pursuing this endeavor. If I were to find that you were going against my expressed wishes, I would have Viktor return you to the ruin in which he found you, and I would personally write Minister Weasley to tell him where you were."

The vehemence of the Headmaster's statement, coupled with the fact that it was essentially a death threat, was enough to impress on Harry the importance of saying nothing more. He merely nodded, and left the office, muttered pleasantries exchanging as he went.

Strangely enough, he had seen the book that the Headmaster was talking about, but he hadn't touched it. He had figured that the Ninth was probably something more secret than just a history lesson. Something else was going on here, and he wasn't sure what.

-----

A/N - Sorry couldn't resist the rather blatant misuse of a Monty Python and the Holy Grail joke above. I'm sure there's a ministry department for that.

Necronomicon - See Evil Dead, Evil Dead II, Army of Darkness, and others. Also a book in many other fanfics, online comics, pulp horror fiction.


	10. Chapter 10 : An Interlude

**CHAPTER TEN - INTERLUDE**

Albus Dumbledore strode confidently into Professor Severus Snape's office. His expression was, as usual imperturbable, although in the weeks since Harry's absentee trial, he had aged visibly.

Whatever the changes to Albus' appearance, Severus Snape had gone through significantly more. His face was haggard; where before it had been severe, now it was drawn. He had lost the intensity of righteous wrath that his students had been so familiar with, and his precision was gone, a victim of the distracted mood he had held since reading Harry Potter's goodbye note.

On his desk sat a Pensieve, though not the one that Harry had found some years ago. This one was special - it held not just one person's memories, but many.

Severus held his wand over the Pensieve, looking like he had caught himself in the process of putting it in. He held in place, his hand not taking the plunge. Albus walked over and pulled Severus' hand away, then slipped the wand from his grasp.

Albus smiled kindly. "Severus, do not do this."

"I must, Professor. I must see myself for who I am."

"You cannot blame yourself, Severus."

"I don't." The Potion's teacher's tone was unconvincing, at best, but he continued. "This isn't about him. It's about me. How can I know who I am, if I can't see through another's eyes?"

"Severus, I did not block you when you started this project, although I suppose I should have. Although you were barely within your rights to ask current Gryffindor students to aid in your pursuit of self-knowledge, calling back Fred and George Weasley and asking them to contribute seemed excessive."

"I suppose, I hoped that if I selected the students that, in my opinion, deserved the worst that I gave anyone, it would balance out those that deserved the best... and didn't get it."

"But now, you aren't so sure."

"I am afraid, Headmaster. You know that I am normally not much given to narcissism. I cannot look myself in a mirror anymore, Albus. I am afraid of what I will see. How can I look into this?"

"Severus, I do not think that any of us can truly see ourselves, through any mirror, no matter how perfect or imperfect. I can tell you that I hold you in my deepest respect and affection. You may have reason to doubt that, and you may need to resolve those doubts. I know," he sighed, "that I have had many of my own doubts, as of late, and I am beginning to examine myself. Do not give up on yourself as a result, however."

Snape seemed shaken by the open regard shown by the Headmaster.

"Headmaster, I believe a philosopher once pointed out that a life unexamined is not worth living. Before, my certainty, my surety, was all I had. Now that I've realized how little I knew about my own actions, it seems that all I have are doubts."

"Your image of yourself was your mirror, Severus. There is no shame in that; many have said the same thing. You are right that you need to look beyond yourself for answers, that you are not exactly as you see yourself. But, Severus --" he paused, leaning over, almost whispering. "Do not exchange one false mirror for another."

Snape bowed his head.

"I want you to do me something, Severus. I have something I wish to contribute to your experiment, but it will take some time for me to complete. Will you lend me your Pensieve until the end of the term?"

"How can I continue until then, Albus?"

"Hopefully, better than you do now. Until the end of term, I wish for you to assign homework, teach classes, and conduct yourself in a way that Severus Snape can be proud of, whatever the past. If you can do this for me, I will speak with the board of governors about allowing you to take up the Dark Arts post next year. However ideal I think you are in the Potions position, I have learned that perhaps I need to trust in the judgment of those I care about, rather than placing my own ideas first."

Severus seemed to take hope in the Headmaster's statement. Perhaps it was because, for him, the fact that he was not trusted with Defense of the Dark Arts was a sign that he could never truly put the past behind him.

"I accept, Headmaster. Thank you for your faith in me."

Snape placed the Pensieve in a wooden box, and traded it with the Headmaster for his wand. The Headmaster smiled. "Not at all, Severus. None of us, after all, are perfect." And he swept from the room with the Pensieve, which contained the memories and opinions of hundreds of Gryffindor students about Severus Snape.

_______

A/N - Quote from Socrates (public domain) : The unexamined life is not worth living.


	11. Chapter 11 : The Highly Restricted Secti...

**CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Highly Restricted Section**

It had taken Harry until the second week in February to complete his map, and not just because of the headaches associated with the Potions and Charms, or the time taken by his duties.

Death Eaters had attacked Durmstrang again. They were attacking almost weekly, although never en masse or in as coordinated a way as they had previously. They would ride broomsticks to within sight of the walls and then levitate a guard off of them, or attack using a Cloak of Invisibility.

No students had died yet, although some attacks had been frightfully close. Harry reluctantly realized that Hogwarts would not have been so lucky. Durmstrang's martial pose had prepared them with reaction plans and contingencies. Guards on the walls carried port-keys, so that they couldn't be knocked into the chasm like a hapless cartoon coyote. Wards fired if a Cloak of Invisibility or Disillusionment Charm approached. They were fairly secure, but that didn't prevent them from asking their Dark Arts Studies Professor to do his part.

He was exhausted. He had taken to eating his meals in his quarters to have some quiet time to himself, and he'd only barely saved his map from having the spells fizzle due to inattention. He'd lost a few features along the way, but nothing that would keep him from his goal, he hoped.

Now he was done, though, and he expected that tonight, he could find the password to enter the Highly Restricted Section. He hoped he would find something there that would answer his questions, and he especially hoped that Girard wouldn't find out.

To celebrate, he treated himself to dinner in the Great Hall. It was a Friday night, and the mood in the Hall was boisterous. All the more so, he realized, because there was going to be a Valentine's ball next week.

Harry was squeamish at the thought of the Ball. It would mark a year since he'd talked to Ginny last, a year since he'd made the mistake that had cost him his Freedom and almost cost an eleven-year-old Hogwart's student his life.

He knew that it would probably come up in conversation at the table, and he regretted being there. Kirsten waved at him, though, looking entirely too happy to see him.

Even Viktor looked happy that Harry had shown up, although not without a gleam of victory in his eye. Harry was concerned about that look of victory. He wondered how long he would have to wait to hear what it was about, although he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

As it turned out, he did not have to wait long. As soon as Harry had sat down, Viktor cleared his throat. Given Viktor's fondness for glottal stops, it was a sound full of enough mucus to make Harry wince. "I am making an announcement, now. I wish to tell you all that I am going to be marrying a most wonderful English witch."

Harry's wince grew more severe, until his eyes were completely shut. Viktor was still talking. "She is going to be visiting me here for the Ball, and I am going to ask her then." 

"So, then, you haven't proposed yet?" Harry repeated Viktor's last sentence, the hope evident in his voice, opening his eyes to Viktor's expression.

"Da, Harry, but there is no doubt she will say yes. If you could see what she has said in her letters!"

Viktor had made no effort to actually share the text of the letters, and Harry still thought that perhaps he was reading too much into them. He wasn't too motivated to read them, though. He couldn't risk seeing Hermione's words to someone else in black and white.

He clearly wasn't the only one troubled by Viktor's announcement. Kirsten quietly excused herself - quietly, but she almost ran from the table. Viktor looked pleased at her reaction. Watching his pleasure at someone else's pain made Harry angry. As the anger built, he could feel something again, and this time he recognized it. It was power, magical power, waiting to be tapped. The more he held it in check, stewing over it, the more it banked, like a fire in a blast furnace. He felt that at this moment, he could probably kill Viktor without even noticing the effort, or Imperio him to write a note to Hermione breaking it off.

The whole world around Harry seemed somewhat out of focus. He could hear dozens of voices, but was having trouble focusing on any one. He knew that his wand was in his hand, and it wouldn't take any effort to point it at Viktor. Girard would probably give him a raise for giving more effort.

One of the voices around him finally penetrated. It was Sarcos, tugging on his sleeve. He was whispering in Harry's ear. "Professor, I saw Professor Karkaroff in the hall - she was crying. Is something wrong?"

The world snapped back into focus, and he could feel the anger reducing. It was being starved, and within a few moments, he could hardly feel it at all, although he still knew it was there, waiting to return the next time he got angry.

He left the table, walking after Kirsten, and he at least had the satisfaction of seeing Viktor's expression darken when he left.

Harry caught up with Kirsten halfway to her quarters. She wasn't walking that quickly after leaving the dining hall, and seemed to be trying to shield her face from the students as she went. He understood - even a witch couldn't be thought of as being sensitive or emotional at Durmstrang, it just didn't fit.

Without really thinking, Harry put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into them. He picked a secret passage off to the right and tapped on the painting that hid it, opening the door, and then he guided Kirsten inside to a dusty old bench.

She seemed amazed. "How did you know this was here?"

"I found it from the other end of the passage - the wall on the other end is too thin, you can hear that it's hollow if you knock on it."

"And why would you do that?"

"Just a hobby, trying to learn as much as I can about this place."

"Really. I've lived here most of my life, and I never knew about it."

"It's just a knack, I suppose. I often end up where I'm not supposed to be."

"Thanks for coming after me, Harry. I don't think we need to bother Viktor anymore, though. There's not much point. I wouldn't want him, even if he did notice me."

"Good. You're too good for him. He notices you, even if he acts like he doesn't care about you at all. He looked ready to kill me for going after you."

"Really? Well, you still needn't bother anymore."

"I didn't come after you to bother Viktor. I came after you because you deserved it."

She breathed in deeply, and looked up at him, searching for something in his face. "And why would I deserve anything?"

"He's hurting you. You don't deserve to have someone hurt you intentionally."

"Why would you care?"

"Someone has to."

She leaned against him, and he held her silently for what seemed like hours, before he helped her up to her room.

~.~.~

Harry started his nighttime trip to the Highly Restricted Section even later than he had intended. Being there for Kirsten had delayed him far longer than he had intended, but he knew it was worth it. How many times had one of his friends given up their own plans for him? He knew that Hermione had probably scored a whole NEWT lower than she would have, if she hadn't had to help get him through his last week before the tests.

Hermione should have been here for this excursion. He could wait until Valentine's, and try to get Hermione to come with him but he was afraid that she'd be too busy with Viktor. No, he was still alone.

The passage seemed darker than he remembered it, and his footsteps echoed. He was nervous about the echo. He felt like he was eleven again, but without Dumbledore, Ron, or Hermione to bail him out of trouble.

Hermione again. He just couldn't get her out of his thoughts. He wondered what she would have thought about his innocent comforting of Kirsten. Would she have been jealous, the way he was of her letters to Viktor?

The door was up ahead, and it looked unchanged. Harry pulled out the new map, which he had christened the Honorary Marauder's Map, and used his wand to tap on it, muttering the phrase that would unlock its secrets. Tapping the door, he saw the password displayed on his map. "Dragon's Blood" he said, quietly, and the door opened.

The room inside was larger than it had any business being. There were two small bookshelves, shorter than Harry, near the door, each filled with books. The shelf to the left held books bound in black and red leather, titled the "Full Histories of Durmstrang," with numbered volumes. The other shelf held an eclectic collection of other books, from Quidditch match descriptions to the complete layout of the gauntlet under the castle. 

None of these caught his eyes, however. The room seemed to extend for a hundred feet to the left and right, and the ceiling was over fifty feet tall. This room was all filled with floor to ceiling shelves, but not one of them seemed to have a book. Instead, there were small glass globes, most of them dark and murky, sitting on each shelf.

Most of them were dusty, but there was a section near the door that was fairly clear, as if it had recently been cleaned. There were over a dozen spheres there, and Harry looked at them. He noticed a small brass plaque in front of each sphere. Harry recognized a name, and breathed in, sharply - Van Hoek. He looked at the rest of the spheres, and wasn't surprised to see that each plaque had a name, and that he even recognized some of them. Each plaque also had a date; the Van Hoeks' were both labeled for last Halloween, and most of the dates were also those he recognized as those of Death Eater attacks.

He saw another name he recognized - Ivan Karkaroff. The date was dated about a week before the first of the attacks, and the sphere wasn't as murky as the ones next to it. Instead, it was almost crystal clear. Inside, Harry could see a small figure of Karkaroff, kneeling, as if in prayer.

Harry heard a distant rumbling, and he looked down at the map. Harry saw dozens of circles pouring through the gate, with names that he didn't recognize. There was also a circle moving around the castle wall with a name he recognized instantly -- "N. Malfoy".

Harry wished that he could be sure that this was Narcissa, but he'd taken a shortcut in casting the spell, and hadn't quite gotten it right. He hadn't been concerned about it at that time, figuring that even his father's map had been fooled by Crouch, and that anything short of a picture and life history might be suspect anyway. Now, he wished he'd gotten it right, since there were undoubtedly many members of the Malfoy family out there who might wish him ill, and being able to identify them would have been a good thing.

It didn't really matter, though, whether it was Narcissa or not, as the rest of the horde was already through the gates. He'd have to come back to the room later. He decided not to take anything with him, but Ivan's face drew his attention. There was a pleading there that he couldn't ignore. Swiftly, hoping no one would notice, he switched Ivan's globe for one of the murkier globes from across the aisle, and then he ran for the passage exit, shoving the map and the sphere into his pocket on the way.

He entered the courtyard to see that a full-blown battle was in process. The front gates had been destroyed, and Haakon and his band of advanced Strategy students seemed to be surrounded by a group of determined Death Eaters. Haakon's axe was claiming as many as his wand, as the Death Eaters didn't seem to understand how to counter it as well as they could a curse.

Harry motioned to some of the students who were standing out of the battle, apparently unsure of what to do, and pointed towards one of the weak spots in the attackers' lines. He started throwing curses into the fray.

The occasional flash of green light proved the seriousness of the attack, and Harry's heart sank as he saw students fall in combat. Haakon had ducked a number of curses, but with the students packed around him, anything that didn't hit him would hit one of his students.

Harry felt almost empty inside. The kind of hatred that could do this to innocent students was beyond what he could understand. It washed away thoughts of the Prophecy, thoughts of his friends, and any kind of compassion.

What it left behind was hatred.

The power of the hate and anger started to build up inside of Harry. He felt almost ready to burst from it, felt the power needing to be used.

He decided to use it. His wand flashed towards a mass of the enemy. He cried, "_Crucio!_" Again and again he cursed the enemy, and it felt good. He was inflicting pain on the people who were attacking, and he was helping turn the tide of battle.

Next to him, students cast weaker curses, which distracted and disarmed their foes. Death Eaters were writhing on the ground, their wands pulled from their grasp.

Then, some of the Death Eaters started to flee, and as the first one made it out through the ruined gate, others followed. Harry started to run after them, and he heard Girard urging him onwards. "Don't let them get away, Harry! Make them pay!"

He felt a hand on his shoulders, though, and turned. It was Kirsten. She had a sad look on her face. "Harry," she whispered, "don't do this. It isn't you."

How would she know? He wondered. How could she know the hatred that he'd bottled up inside, now given a convenient release against those that certainly deserved it. He shook his head, and started to shake off her hand.

"Harry, don't do this. Please."

Kirsten's soft plea wouldn't have done it alone, but he saw the brown owl, which he had thought he had lost, looking at him placidly from atop the wall. It's eyes looked sad, and he felt a sense of disappointment coming from it.

And then, there was Girard, still yelling. "What are you waiting for, Potter! Take them all. Finish them." He had a sudden sense that he could choose to be what Girard wanted him to be, or what Kirsten and the strange owl saw in him.

It was a surprisingly difficult choice. The anger and hatred pulsing through him wanted a release, and he thought he could see Narcissa Malfoy's platinum locks from under the hood of one of the escaping Death Eaters. The Malfoys had done enough to his family that he could hardly stand not chasing her down right now.

But he did. He stood there, his fist clenched around his wand hard enough to hurt, and he met Kirsten's eyes. There was a fear there, a fear that was equally for him, and of him. He felt like flinching from the gaze, but forced himself to stand there meeting it.

After a few minutes, as the Death Eaters vanished, the power slipped away, and Harry finally felt able to look away from Kirsten. He looked up, but the owl had flown away. He was disappointed. He hoped that it had returned, but he supposed he'd probably scared it as well.

Girard was still screaming. A few moments ago, Harry would have been tempted to destroy the Headmaster where he stood for his troubles. The anger had leached out of him, though. He just ignored the Headmaster, and started snapping out orders to students to help confine the Death Eaters and to carry the wounded students up to the Hospital Ward.

Kirsten put her arm on his shoulder, and helped him up to his quarters. Harry was relieved to see that the brown owl was there, although he was a little worried about the pitcher of pumpkin juice that was sitting on the table.

Kirsten still had her arm around him, and she sat with him on the couch.

"Are you whole?" She asked, after a few moments.

"I've been better," Harry responded. Her arm made him feel uncomfortable, and he squirmed under it, but she just held him tighter.

"I was worried about you."

"Why?"

"There seem to be two Professor Harry Potters. One is the man that saved us all from Voldemort, that makes young students gain self-confidence, that stands up to Girard. The other... the other does horrible things that I don't think he would willingly admit. And besides," she said, with a faint smile that he saw out of the corner of his eye, "no one else is here to care."

The brown owl and Hedwig both stared straight at Harry, and he stood, shaking off her arm. "I'm not sure that's true," he said, almost under his breath. Harry poured a pair of pumpkin juices, and offered one to Kirsten.

"No thank you, Harry. I'm not a fan of pumpkin juice. It is more a thing for Hogwarts, yes?"

He nodded his head. "Can I get you something else, then?"

She was still sitting on his couch, her arm outstretched, offering to hold him. Despite himself, Harry was fairly certain that she was offering more than just the return of the innocent comfort he'd offered the day before. He felt uncomfortable at the thought.

Hedwig had turned away, but the owl was still staring at him. The silence was growing uncomfortable.

"Harry, the Valentine's Ball is this week."

"I know." Harry would have liked to forget it. His distaste showed clearly.

"Viktor will be there with his date." She looked like she'd bitten into something bitter.

"I know. And we'll both be alone."

"We don't have to be, Harry."

"I thought we weren't going to try to tweak Viktor anymore."

"Well, maybe this last time."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, "I don't think I'll be good company on Tuesday."

"It's her, isn't it? The one who..."

"I don't want to talk about it," he shook his head. "I can't, yet. I don't know if there's any chance for us."

"I understand. It's taken me a long time to give up on Viktor." She smiled wistfully. "I had these dreams, that I would catch him, and he would forget anyone else."

"I don't want to catch her." Harry shook his head. "I just want to be with her."

"What's the difference?"

"I'm not sure." He shook his head. "It just doesn't sound right the other way."

"It's just a Ball," she said. Harry felt like a heel for saying no; it wouldn't cost him anything to go. He felt terrible for not giving Ginny even a dance. Was he doing the same to Kirsten, leaving her alone out of selfishness?

He couldn't lead her on, though. "If you don't mind that I'll probably step on your feet, I'd be happy to dance with you. I don't think I can go with you, though."

She seemed a little mollified at this. Just a little, though. She seemed suddenly fixated on his robe, where he realized that the globe had rolled to the bottom of his wand pocket, in the front. 

Harry hurriedly reached into his pocket and pulled the globe up, moving it enough that it would be clear that it wasn't anything more personal in nature.

She giggled at his discomfort. He said solemnly, "Now you've done it. I don't think I've ever seen you giggle before."

She stopped, and suddenly became aware of herself. "I probably haven't. There's not usually much to laugh about. Not alone."

Her explanation brought something out that Harry hadn't seen as strongly before. Pain. "Tell me about it," he commanded, softly.

"About what?" She looked like she honestly didn't understand.

"About whatever's been eating you up inside." He was crossing a line, he knew, but he hoped that as long as he stood away from her arms, she wouldn't take it as more than an offer of true friendship.

She seemed to be looking anywhere but at his eyes. She started to make excuses, but Harry ignored them, and repeated his command. "Tell me about it."

Kirsten told him. She had grown up spending most of her time at Durmstrang, with her uncle, Ivan. She had started teaching at Durmstrang the same year that he had gone to the Triwizard Tournament. After Harry's fourth year, he had disappeared, and she'd been left alone. Most of the other teachers had shunned her, and most of the students seemed to think that she should have been teaching Dark Arts. She knew that her uncle had been a Death Eater, but that hadn't stopped her from loving him.

Viktor had been nice to her, at least in private, although he hadn't given her much support. When Hermione wrote him the previous summer, it was clear to Kirsten that she was second choice at best. Viktor still wanted to spend time with her, but only because he didn't have Hermione there in the flesh.

Harry was fidgeting, his hand on the globe inside his pocket. He wasn't sure how she would handle it if he just pulled it out. He didn't even know for sure what it signified.

When she'd begun to wind down, her story concluding with events he already knew about, Harry interrupted. "Do you know anything about where Girard puts the Death Eaters?"

A shadow passed over her face, and Harry could see the beginnings of anger. He'd pulled a Ron, there. He hastened to add, "I know this seems completely irrelevant. Trust me, though. It's not."

"I'm not sure. I remember back in my fifth year, a student tried to free some kind of Dark Magic. My uncle had to sentence him to be imprisoned. He cried after he was done - he said he couldn't believe that a student would have a soul that black."

"They're just imprisoned? They're not... dead?"

"I don't think so. There was one that I remember being freed, back when I was a girl. His wife had confessed to using Imperio on him."

Harry didn't want to confess his wrongs, but he felt that he couldn't keep this from Kirsten. "I found something earlier. I don't think it belonged... where it was." He drew his hand from his pocket, pulling out the globe that contained Ivan Karkaroff.

She almost shrieked when she saw it, and took it from his hands. "Uncle Ivan?"

"I can't tell you where I found him," Harry continued, "and I'm sure I'll get into loads of trouble if Girard finds out, but it was worth it. Do you suppose we can get him out?"

"We'll find a way," she breathed. "There has to be one. You don't think that Girard knew?"

"I'm sure he did," Harry said, fairly sure of himself in this. Whoever had incarcerated the other Death Eaters had to have seen Ivan's sphere, and Girard would have noticed if there was an extra prisoner there.

He thought about the other books he had seen down there. "If this is something that they only do at Durmstrang, then maybe it's in the Full History."

"I don't remember seeing anything in the History in the Restricted Section," Kirsten said, and Harry wondered if she'd been the one who had set off the alarms.

"Not that one," he shook his head, and told her about the Highly Restricted Section. "There's a huge one there - it's got at least thirty volumes. If I can find out when the first person was imprisoned, maybe I can find it in the volume for that year."

"You sound pretty determined," Kirsten said, still looking at the globe. "I'm not used to researching things like that."

Harry felt a pang, and the next words came out before he could think better of them. "I'm not used to doing it alone, either. This is the sort of thing that Hermione does better than me. I wish she was here."

Kirsten sniffled, and stood up. "I'm sure you do. I'll take this with me -- let me know if you find anything out."

"I will." He probably shouldn't have brought up Hermione to Kirsten, but he couldn't take back the words now. He helped her to the door.

"Good night," she said, and she turned away.

"Thank you." He said, to her back.

When he got back into the room, both of his owls were missing. He sighed. It looked like he was back to being alone.


	12. Chapter 12 : In Defense of Friends

**CHAPTER TWELVE - In Defense of Friends**

Valentine's Day arrived, and Harry wasn't any closer to opening the globe, identifying the Ninth, or figuring out anything else than he had been. At least, he reflected, he looked good.

In the months since the last ball, he'd managed to get his hands on a number of mail-order catalogues, and if he had to make do with off-the-rack clothing, it was at least quality wear. Dragon-skin riding boots, just over the ankle and shining black, matched the black leather trousers that peaked out beneath his dress robes, which were a deep red with muted gold trim. The red was almost black, but there was just enough of it to pull out the green from his eyes. The gold trim was also subtle, except for the gold buttons on his wrists.

The clothing was the least of the changes. New spectacles, smaller than his old ones, finally replaced the black frames that he'd been stuck with for years. The frames were a muted steel, almost looking like pewter, and they only went around the top half of the lenses.

His hair was probably the most changed thing about him. He had ordered some of Sleekeasy's Hair Potion, which he remembered Hermione using before the ball in fourth year. He had used almost half a bottle, and hoped that it would keep his hair from being disobedient for at least part of the evening.

The changes to his hair and glasses had an unintended side effect, which Harry wasn't sure he liked. Before, they had covered up or at least drawn attention away from his scar - now, it stood in plain sight, where no one could possibly miss it.

Kirsten's eyes widened as she saw him enter the ballroom, and there were appreciative whistles from a number of students, mostly male ones who he expected were pulling his leg. He didn't see either Hermione or Viktor, however.

His gaze must have been more obvious than he'd thought. Girard approached him, and although Harry expected another lecture on the use of inadequate force, or possibly an accusation for the theft of Ivan's sphere, he was surprised to hear the Headmaster speak softly to him. "I believe that the people you are looking for are in one of the Library study rooms. You may as well go and see them."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I suppose I will." Harry tried not to run towards the Library, but he knew his hurry was evident by the way that students pressed to the wall in an exaggerated attempt to get out of his way.

Harry could feel a few strands of his hair already managing to break free of his skull, but he hoped the effect was still there. He remembered how he and Ron had felt at seeing Hermione dressed up for her first date with Viktor, and wondered if she'd feel the same way - jealous, and challenged to see what she hadn't seen before.

He heard what sounded like struggling from one of the Library study rooms, and ran for it. The rooms were small and cozy, just a few couches, some coffee tables, and a fireplace, and were often used for study group meetings, since with the door shut, the Librarian didn't pay attention to loud discussions.

Harry hadn't thought about what else they could be used for. Rounding the corner to look into the room, he saw that Viktor was leaning against Hermione, her back up against the wall. Their faces were flushed, and Viktor's hands were in entirely inappropriate places. Their lips were locked together, but they must have heard Harry, as Hermione broke free and spoke his name in surprise, with a voice gasping for breath.

Harry turned, and started to walk away. It was his fault for intruding, or Girard's fault for suggesting he join them, not Hermione's, but that didn't stop him from being angry. He'd hoped that she was at least partly here to see him, but she couldn't wait to start snogging Viktor the second they met.

Harry had been dancing around his feelings for Hermione for years. Only in the last two had he started to admit them to himself, but he hadn't realized how deep they ran until now. He'd always had an unspoken sense that she'd wait for him, that they could keep being friends until they suddenly became more. He hadn't thought about it consciously, and he'd almost driven her away a number of times, but she'd always been there anyway. Apparently, she'd stopped waiting. She'd made another choice. Harry was too late, and only now did he realize just what he had lost. He didn't just find her attractive, or want to be in her company. He didn't just think of her as a friend that could be something more. He loved her, and he'd never be able to tell her.

Harry felt the power of anger rising in him, but he didn't notice how it affected all that he passed. He walked towards the North Garden. Beside him, plants shriveled and died. Insects scurried away in fear.

Girard was standing in the Garden, waiting for Harry.

"Bad news, Professor Potter?"

Harry stared at him. He was suddenly sure, by Girard's satisfied smirk, that he had known what Harry would find in the Library. He knew that he could blast the Headmaster where he stood, that a single Killing Curse and a flash of green light could eliminate the self-satisfied expression of his face.

Harry was half-convinced that the Headmaster wanted it that way. He wasn't sure what Girard's motivation in trying to push him over the edge was. He might as well ask him, Harry thought. "Why are you so keen on having me use the Killing Curse, Girard?"

Girard looked off his game. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You've been manipulating things since I got here. I don't know why - are you hoping that you'll be the Dark Wizard everyone's waiting for? Or do you just expect him to bow to you?"

Girard shook his head. "Mister Potter, I had understood that you were usually slower on the uptake than this. Yes, I know about the Prophecy, but I'm afraid you don't truly understand the implications. I am surprised that you have figured out my poor, humble, part, however, especially without your dear Hermione. I wonder, do you think that she's quite finished yet? Perhaps she can fill in some of the details."

"Don't talk about her." Harry gritted his teeth. "She's worth a hundred of you - and at least two hundred Viktors. You shouldn't even say her name."

"Harsh, Mister Potter, very harsh." The Headmaster was grinning. "I am surprised that you feel that you can forbid me from saying the name of a famous witch in my own school, let alone the name of one that is engaged to my flying master."

"Leave her out of this, Girard. Tell me what you want of me and what you're trying to do. What have you done to make her be with Viktor? I can't believe she'd ever do it intentionally." His words were a denial of what he'd already accepted as truth in his heart - Hermione had chosen Viktor, who had been able to tell her what no one else had - how he felt about her.

"Why are you so sure, Mister Potter?"

"I've known Hermione for over eight years. She's got much better taste than that. And besides, if this wasn't just some sick show for my benefit, you wouldn't have timed it to send me downstairs just then."

Girard shook his head again, clearly amused. "Mister Potter, I had heard that you had become somewhat eccentric, but such delusions are hardly becoming of a Durmstrang Professor. I suggest you retire to your room for the evening. Or should I find you alternative living arrangements?" Girard lifted up a clear glass sphere, which Harry could see was empty, and then turned, walking away.

He didn't have to obey Girard. He could just kill him. Given how Durmstrang operated, they'd probably make him the next Headmaster. If he didn't kill him, though, he'd have to run from here, since it was clear he wasn't safe. Or he'd just have to obey, for now.

Harry walked to his room, ignoring the festive sounds coming from the ballroom. He didn't notice the eyes watching him from the far door of the garden, eyes furious with anger, eyes attached to the face of one Viktor Krum.

.~.~.

Harry's room had been ransacked. Hedwig was locked in her cage, and looked shaken. Harry unlocked her quickly, and called down the speaking tube for some treats, and waited for Hedwig to finish up before doing anything more.

When Hedwig had finished, he had her perch on his shoulder, while he walked around the room, righting everything. There didn't seem to be anything missing, although there were a few pages torn out of the mail-order catalogues. The fact that someone had taken the time to rip pages out for Muggle clothing, lawn gnome targets, and wand cleaning supplies seemed so incongruous to Harry that he laughed as he worked, upsetting his owl.

The fact that he could still laugh, after seeing Hermione with Viktor, surprised Harry. He kept laughing, forcing it, and trying to deny his pain. He didn't want to analyze how he felt - he felt anger, he felt hate, but he didn't feel the presence that had accompanied them before. He knew why that was. His target for them had changed. He hated himself.

Harry had been so sure of himself the year before, even after he awoke with Dumbledore by his side. He knew all about the faults everyone else had - they judged him without knowing him, they didn't tell him what they didn't want him to hear, they did what they wanted to without thinking about what it would do to him, they read too much into the words of others. In the time since then, he'd seen every one of these aspects in himself.

He wasn't sure when he'd stopped laughing. He just knew that he was sitting on the couch, sobbing in a way that he hadn't since he was a child. After Voldemort's death, he had been adrift. Dumbledore had thrown him an anchor in the Dark Arts job, but that had failed. He hadn't realized that there was another anchor holding him from being lost. That anchor was his bond with Hermione, and what had kept it's hold despite the fact that they'd gone months without talking was his hope that something more would come.

That anchor was gone, now. The one letter that he'd gotten from her obviously hadn't meant what he had thought it had. In his mind, Harry had accused Viktor of reading too much into the letters he had gotten from Hermione. He'd been guilty of the same, obviously.

Why the rose, though? A red rose wasn't just a flower; it was a message. Hermione had nearly scratched Ron's eyes out when he had gotten her carnations back in their sixth year, because she said that they stood for something like disdain. Ron just liked them because they lived more than a few days. Harry didn't remember what anything else meant, but he knew a red rose wasn't a disdainful present to give, especially to Hermione.

There was a knock at the door. Harry stood up, and walked towards the door, shaking in his steps. "Who is it?" he challenged, his voice shaking.

"It is I!" Viktor's voice nearly shouted, and Harry wished that someone would teach him to say something without an exclamation point. He cast a Glamour on himself, returning his appearance to his normal morning look, which he hoped wouldn't look too out of place for this point in the evening.

Harry opened the door. Viktor was standing there, smirking. There was a brush of lipstick on his cheek, and what looked like a bite mark on his neck. Harry fixed his gaze on the ceiling, hoping he looked nonchalant. "Yes, Viktor, what can I do for you?"

"My dear Hermoninny was so embarrassed when you caught us together, that she has decided not to stay for the ball. She wanted me to give you this, though. She said you would know what needed to be done."

He handed Harry a folded up piece of newsprint, and wished him a pleasant evening. Something in Viktor's mood seemed off, but Harry didn't really want to study him right now.

Harry unfolded the newsprint, and read it through quickly, glancing at the picture of Ginny in manacles at trial. Then he read it through again, looking carefully at the dates in the article.

He grabbed his wand and his broomstick, and told Hedwig to find Hermione.

Harry Potter was going back to England.

~.~.~

"I hope that you are satisfied," Viktor said through gritted teeth. He was standing in his room, facing away from the door. He hadn't heard it open, or heard anyone enter, but he had sensed that he was no longer alone. There was a pint-glass in his left hand filled with excellent quality vodka. His wand was clenched tightly in his right hand.

"Quite," came the voice behind him, no longer disguised. Viktor turned, and was not surprised to see Girard there, wearing a death eater uniform, with the hood pulled back and the mask in his hand. "I told you that you would have a price."

"You think that you have bought me," Viktor replied, "but you have not. I am not yours to command. The only reason I have cooperated with you at all is so that you will free my Hermoninny from the spell that Harry has on her."

"Ahh, my fine, loyal, slightly deluded flying master," Girard shook his head. "There was no spell. You've just assumed as much."

"You are lying," Viktor responded, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You promised me that if I gave that message to Potter, I would have Hermione."

Girard smiled, "And so you shall, Mister Krum. And so you shall. I will be done with her shortly, and then you will be free to do with her as you please. You may have to encourage her somewhat, but I'm certain that you can manage an Imperious curse, if you need to."

"Then, she never loved me?" Viktor's hand was shaking. He could feel the glass of vodka slipping from his fingers, and knew that soon it would fall to the floor, but he didn't care.

"I doubt it," Girard replied, smiling. "She has eyes only for Mister Potter, I am afraid. But I'm sure she might have been your friend, before you assaulted her in the library and sent the love of her life into a trap."

"Because you made me!" Viktor cried out.

"Viktor, my friend," Girard said, and he started to walk towards the door, leaving his final words for a parting shot. "How could I have made you do anything? After all, there is nothing that you want that I can give you."


	13. Chapter 13 : The Prisoners of Azkaban

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Prisoners of Azkaban**

The article had reminded Harry that, although he didn't feel the way for Ginny that she seemed to feel for him, she was his friend, and that she'd never given up on him. She'd suffered for him, and if she were going to be imprisoned now, it would also be for him.

Harry's broom had never gone as fast as it was right now. The article said that Ginny had been found guilty two weeks ago, but that they had waited for February 15th for the sentencing hearing. The article's reporter had said that she would receive at least a year in Azkaban, but that the tribunal could consider sentencing her as if she had committed the Unforgivable Curse herself. That would mean at least life in prison, if they didn't have her Kissed by a Dementor.

The Dementors were still guarding the prison. No one had figured out anything else to do with them, or anything better to do with the prisoners, as far as Harry knew. Harry had thought that finding a better way would have been on the Ministry's to-do list, but he hadn't exactly kept up with the Ministry, and he figured he was probably higher on their list at the moment. Ginny might live through her sentence, but her sanity would be unlikely to survive.

Harry had to stop Ginny from getting to the prison. The article had been remarkably helpful in describing where she would be tried, and in describing how she would be brought to Azkaban. The prison had been warded against both Apparations and Port-keys, and could be reached only by boat, according to the article. After the trial, she would be taken on a special Ministry train, similar to the Hogwart's Express, from Charing Cross station, to the port where she'd catch a boat to her cell.

His concern was hampering his concentration, and he forced himself to think of nothing but speed. He couldn't keep out his emotions, though, and in the mass of his feelings; he felt the presence of the powerful anger, waiting to be used.

Harry tried to tap into the power, for the first time consciously reaching out towards it. It felt like he was drinking from a sewer, but the broom went faster as the power bled into it, and Harry forced himself to maintain contact.

At dawn, he pulled his Invisibility Cloak over his head. He had put other charms on himself and his broom to make it harder to detect, and hoped it would be enough. He would have liked to have just Apparated to London, but he knew that the Ministry spent far more effort tracking Apparations than they did Broomsticks, due to the dangers of splinching and the revenue associated with the licensing process. If he Apparated in, he'd trigger so many alarms that every Auror in England would know he was there. Assuming, of course, that they hadn't set something up to temporarily block anyone from Apparating in, which he expected might be the case.

He had another reason for using a broomstick as well. He expected that he couldn't rescue Ginny alone if he faced all of the defenders at once, at a station. He was planning on repeating the events of his second year, when he and Ron shadowed the Hogwart's Express from above. This time, rather than just following it, he'd actually land, and take the train. Apparating into a moving object was just about impossible, so Harry expected that he'd be safe from guards if he could get onboard while it was still moving.

Harry hovered over the station for about a half-an-hour, watching for the train to leave. When it started to leave, he had no trouble identifying it. It was a steam locomotive, like the Hogwarts Express, but it was bigger, more solid. Harry didn't count, but it looked like it must have over a dozen wheels on each side of the engine, which was a shining black steel.

There were only three cars behind the engine, one of which Harry readily identified as the coal tender, where the fuel was contained. The last looked like a pleasant coach car, with loads of windows, with a rounded section. Harry could make out people moving around in there, but figured it wasn't likely to contain a prisoner.

The car in the middle, he felt, was likely to contain Ginny. It had no windows. The doors were barred from the outside - Harry hoped that meant that it had no guards inside.

As soon as it cleared the station, Harry zoomed down towards it. He followed it until it started to go through a series of bridges, and then quickly pointed his wand at each target in turn, casting levitation spells.

With the first spell, the trailing car came uncoupled from the prison car, and began falling behind. With the second and third spells, guards that Harry had spotted standing between the cars floated off and dropped to the ground next to the bridge. Harry didn't know if they survived or not, but that wasn't a primary concern.

His last spell disconnected the prison car from the lead tender and engine, and he leapt to the platform as it slowed. The train ahead didn't seem to have noticed yet, but even if it did, Harry didn't think much could stop him. He pulled the beams off, and saw that there was only one person inside. She had a hood over her head, and Harry could just barely make out her feminine form under the black cloth that obscured her. She was manacled to a chair, with leather straps holding the cloak in place. Harry levitated the chair out and balanced it on his broomstick by its back, ignoring the muffled yelps from inside at the sudden changes in position.

He wasn't sure it was Ginny. It had to be, but he couldn't believe that she'd lost as much weight as it appeared. She'd have to be barely skin and bones under the cloth.

Harry didn't fly far before he descended into a group of woods. As fast as he was, he knew that he'd covered several miles, and that would make the search difficult. He also knew that if he flew anywhere settled, the chair would gather attention. His charms and cloak only made him invisible; they didn't stretch to his passenger. 

As soon as he'd set her chair down, Harry removed the straps and manacles, followed by the hood, and then stopped, dumbfounded. This wasn't Ginny.

The face that looked back at him had once been pretty, in the same way that porcelain china was, but hadn't ever held any true beauty. The look that was permanently fixed on it, a look like Petunia's face after Harry had burned the bacon when he was six, removed any chance of him thinking her beautiful.

She was tall, and even slimmer now than when Harry had first seen her, at the Quidditch World Cup some years ago. Her platinum hair, framing her face, was now slightly tinged with mere white, which must have been an awful disappointment to her, much like her son.

Narcissa Malfoy looked almost as amazed to see Harry Potter as he was to see her.

~.~.~

After a few moments of stunned silence, Narcissa had started making demands on Harry. She seemed not totally ungrateful for her timely rescue, but she was too used to giving orders to sit silently, and Harry was too accustomed to favoring reaction over action to cut her off.

She had just been sentenced to life imprisonment at Azkaban with her husband. He was almost totally mad by now, even as compared to what he had been before. Harry didn't voice that observation, but he wasn't sure she would have disputed it. She didn't seem at all loving of her husband in the way she talked, but then, he had managed to bring her from wealth and fortune to almost nothing during the war.

When she asked him why he'd rescued her, Harry handed her the article. She laughed, after a moment. "Give me your wand, boy!"

Harry shook his head, and she thrust the article back at him. "End the enchantment on this yourself, then."

Harry murmured, "Finite Incantatum," while tapping the article, and he saw the words and pictures change. Ginny's face was replaced with Narcissa's, and the wording moved around.

"She's not on her way to Azkaban," he asked, feeling some degree of hope.

"No, she's already there. Her trial was complete before mine, open and shut. They sent her there for twenty-five years."

Harry's heart sank. He was too late. He wasn't sure what to do about Narcissa, and his indecision showed.

"Are you planning on bringing me back to Durmstrang with you?" Narcissa asked.

"I was actually trying to figure out how to turn you back over to the Aurors," he said, keeping his eyes on her.

She breathed in deeply. "Don't you have any pity on an old woman? After all you've done to me?"

Harry's face grew red. He might have had pity for her if she hadn't claimed it. Reminding him of her family's "suffering", which was nothing more than just, wasn't a good move on her part, however.

She sensed his anger, and backpedaled. "Are you still interested in saving Ginny?"

"Yes."

"Why? I thought your heart was reserved for someone else. Certainly, all the trouble that our friends went through at Hogwarts seemed to have been a waste."

"I don't desert the people I care about." Harry said, and he saw her lips twitch.

"I think I may have heard otherwise in the past," she said, but she cut of his retort, "but be that as it may, I can help you."

"Why would you?"

"Because, if I do, you will agree not to turn me in. You will find me a wand, and you will help me with one other thing."

"I won't promise anything without hearing about it," Harry said, "if I need to, I'll get Ginny some other way."

"Yes, but what will be left of her when you do? You didn't see her at trial, still shaken up by her pain of last summer. You didn't hear her in the next cell, crying from her nightmares, screaming out that she was all alone. That everyone had left her behind."

Harry could almost hear the echoes of her screams. He didn't trust Narcissa, but didn't think she was lying. "What else do you want?"

"While you're risking your life for that worthless red-headed excuse for a witch, you can get something more valuable. Bring me Lucius."

Harry was surprised. He had expected something darker, some deliberate act of violence or Dark Magic. He was too startled to even respond to the insults to Ginny. "Why would you want me to get him out? I thought you were well and done with him."

She kept her temper, but he could tell it was difficult. "I don't desert my own, either."

Harry shook his head. "What exactly can you do to help me? I'm not giving you a wand until Ginny's out."

"I'm not surprised. I can do something else for you, though. I can get you into Azkaban."

There was nothing Harry could do but to agree. He didn't trust her, but he couldn't think of another option that would let him rescue Ginny, or of any other way to settle things with Narcissa without exposing him to the Aurors.

Narcissa explained the way, as she mounted the broomstick with him. "There's a passage into Azkaban. I can help you find the outside end, then you can enter." She gave him a run-down of the details, and he committed them to memory.

"Why haven't you used it before now?"

"Because, I never had a brainless young Mudblood to do it for me," she snapped back, but he didn't rise to the occasion. He had beaten himself up too much lately, for his actual faults, for her almost clichéd insults to do anything to him. She followed her statement, more softly, with something that did touch him. "Besides, I can't cast a Patronus."

Harry knew that wasn't an admission of a lack of wizard ability. If she'd been a squib, or even just less than extremely powerful, Lucius never would have selected her as a bride. With his emphasis on wizard's blood, any mate of his would be chosen more carefully than a mate for a prize racehorse.

It was an admission of one of two things - either her fears were so bad, so awe-inspiring, that they debilitated her too much to choke out the spell, or she could think of no memories happy enough to ward them off. Given the Malfoys' lifestyle, either one was believable, but still sad.

The rest of the flight was silent, with just an occasional finger point from Narcissa to show the way. By the time they got to the castle, it was evening. Harry had been flying since the night before, and his Cushioning Charm had just about given up trying to keep up.

"It's through there," Narcissa pointed when they landed, and Harry followed her directions, bringing the broomstick with him. The island looked deserted, except for the old fortress that made up the prison. The ground was rough and ragged, with small rock faces worn by water at various intervals. There was a gap in one of the rock faces, and it was here that Harry entered.

The cave ended after a dozen feet, but Harry was prepared with the password. "_Noncompus_," he said softly, and the rock face slid open, providing a smooth path under the island, which Harry quickly walked, his wand at the ready, Invisibility Cloak covering him from head to toe.

~.~.~

Harry's exhaustion was getting to him. He was finding it more and more difficult to stay conscious as he forced off the Dementors. Fortunately, the Dementors didn't seem interested in raising an alarm, and he hadn't found any Aurors in the lower levels of the prison.

He no longer heard his parents when he got to close to the Dementors. Or rather, he no longer heard only them. They were joined by other voices that he'd never hear again. Cedric, Hagrid, Sirius, and Ron were all there, a virtual chorus of people that he'd failed, every one of whom had died because of him.

Each of them spoke their piece, each memory relived in turn. Harry found it difficult to keep the good memories in mind, as each of them starred someone who he heard dying as he concentrated. Harry struggled through the cold, but somehow managed to make it through the lower levels to the prison towers.

He had used a variant of the Four-Point charm that Hermione taught him back in fourth year to point his way towards Ginny. He found that relying on a pointer to find anything in a three-dimensional building was difficult at best, and wished that he had something more like the Marauder's Map. He wasn't going to try to walk every inch of the prison though, to manage it.

Ginny was being kept in one of the higher towers. In a Muggle prison, this would have been a sign of her importance as a prisoner - here, it was a sign that she wasn't here for a life sentence, since the tower kept her away from the mass of Dementors that ranged the ground floor.

A pair of Aurors guarded her door, and Harry noticed that they looked exhausted. He supposed that the chill of the Dementors permeating this place must really get to them, even up here. He was right to worry about Ginny - he couldn't leave her here!

Harry studied the door for a moment from a distance, but didn't see a keyhole or bar. There was no obvious way to open the door. He'd have to resort to asking.

"Petrificus Totalus!" He said forcefully, and one of the guards stiffened, falling back against the wall. The other pulled his wand, but Harry was faster, moving next to him and holding his wand towards his head.

"Open the door." Harry said.

"Do it yourself," the guard responded, seemingly to thin air. Only Harry's wand was outside the Cloak, unnerving as it was.

"How?"

"Bugger off," the guard responded.

Harry heard the sound of boots in the hall below - someone must have heard his spell, or detected the magic. He was out of time. The guard was annoying him, and he felt for the power to do something about it. "Imperio!"

The guard opened the door at Harry's command, and then went to make noise somewhere else, hopefully drawing off any guards. Harry went inside, and what he saw turned his stomach.

Ginny was thinner than Narcissa Malfoy, mere skin and bones. Her freckles had mostly faded, and her skin was paler than he'd thought possible. She might have only spent a few weeks inside Azkaban, but he realized she'd spent very little of the last year not inside some sort of captivity. She was lying haphazardly on the floor, dressed in a prison robe, striped with black and white.

She didn't look up when he entered, but she didn't sound asleep. He walked over to her, and leaned over, looking her in the eyes. They were open, gazing up, slightly glazed. There was a spark of recognition as she saw his face. "Harry!" He hoped, but then she turned her head slightly, and kept talking. "Harry, you didn't care about me. Harry! You saved me because I was Ron's sister. Harry!..." she grew quieter again, muttering under her breath. Harry wasn't sure if she'd recognized him, or if she regularly listed all the ways that he'd failed her.

He carefully picked her up and put her over his shoulder, than covered both of them with the Invisibility Cloak, before pointing himself towards Lucius' cell, which turned out to be in the basement.

He found it surprisingly easy to get there. The havoc created by the cursed Auror had guards running around the building, knocking back Dementors to clear their own paths as they went. Harry didn't have to summon a single Patronus on the way down, which he was very thankful for. Ginny kept up a running litany, and he was having to tune her out.

Lucius' cell was unguarded, and locked by a simple padlock. Apparently, the miasma created by the Dementors was enough for them to avoid guards at this level. Harry opened the lock with a simple Alhomora, and led Lucius out by the hand. At least he was able to walk, even if he was convinced that Harry was a house-elf bringing him to a bath.

Leaving through the passage was almost anti-climactic. The drain of the Dementors vanished behind him, and Harry lurched the final steps towards the end of the cave, where Narcissa was waiting. She grabbed Lucius in her arms, holding him close, and Harry could see that she was crying. He chose not to recognize her emotion, but moved forward on the broom, so that she could help Lucius on behind him.

The short flight across the water would have been frightening, but after a visit to the home of the Dementors, Harry just couldn't find the idea of balancing four people, two of them nutters, on a small piece of wood in the middle of the night over the water anything but relaxing.

He came to an abrupt landing on the shore, and almost fell off the broom. The entire episode had taken every scrap of energy that he'd had, and only his raw determination to go on had prevented him from falling down before this.

.~.~.

Harry awoke some time later. He hadn't consciously decided to sleep, and panicked for a moment, as he realized that he'd left Ginny to the tender mercies of Narcissa. When he sat up, though, he saw her lying nearby, half-covered with the black cloth that had been used for Narcissa.

The Malfoys were also nearby. Narcissa was propped up on one shoulder next to Lucius, while he slept peacefully. She had obviously spent most of the time that he'd been asleep crying.

They were in a building. Harry assumed Narcissa had moved them here. It looked like a boathouse, although both of the berths were empty. Harry hoped that the occupants wouldn't be returning any time soon. He stood up, stretching, and wasn't surprised to see the sun through the cracked windows. It had to be nearly noon - he'd slept at least twelve hours, he thought.

Narcissa gradually looked up at him, and he saw emotions flicker in her eyes. What truly amazed him was that for the first time ever, she truly looked beautiful to him. Her normal mask of disdain had fallen, and she didn't seem to look on him with the hatred that he was accustomed to.

She wasn't meeting his gaze. "Thank you," she said, simply.

"I didn't do it for you," he said with a little more force than he'd meant to.

"No one ever does," she said, taking a tone almost reminiscent of McGonagall. "No one ever does anything for anyone except themselves."

"I did it for her," Harry responded, looking at Ginny.

Narcissa shook her head. "Call it a philosophical difference. I don't think you would understand if I explained. Perhaps I can leave this for another day."

Harry snorted. The chances of him ever having a deep philosophical conversation with anyone named Malfoy were almost vanishingly small. She seemed to sense his thought, and changed the subject.

"What are your plans now?"

"I'm not sure," Harry said, looking at Ginny. "I'd like to find a way to help her, but I'm not sure what to do."

"She needs professional help," Narcissa agreed, nodding her head as if she cared. Harry doubted it very much, but appreciated her avoiding confrontation. "I'd suggest St. Mungo's, but I doubt they'd do anything for her. I don't suppose you know any good mediwitches?" 

Harry thought. "The only ones I've worked with were at St. Mungos, Hogwarts, and Durmstrang. I don't think I can go anywhere near St. Mungo's or Hogwart's."

"And Durmstrang's right out." Narcissa continued.

He stared back at her. "Why?"

She goggled at him. "I never thought you were a genius, but surely you're not that dense, are you? Durmstrang's a trap for you, you can't risk going there, especially as angry as you've been."

Harry felt thickheaded, but snapped back. "I'd like to see how good you are at strategy after riding a broom across Europe and breaching Azkaban. Could you just tell me what you're talking about?"

Her disagreeable look was coming back, and Harry regretted having snapped at her. He didn't like Narcissa, but he really didn't need to anger anyone else right now. She replied, her lips pursed, "Girard is one of Lucius' old associates. He wasn't a follower of Voldemort, but only because he felt that the Dark Lord should take on England before he tried to assault the rest of Europe. He was ready and waiting to assist in any way possible."

She continued, "When Lucius was exposed as a follower of the Dark Lord, Girard kept in contact. Much more than I did, in fact. I was angry with Lucius, and I didn't plan to lift a finger to help him out."

Her voice soft, almost below where Harry could hear, she whispered, "I didn't realize until he was gone that I cared for him."

After a pause, she said, more loudly, "It's been clear in his last few appearances that Lucius isn't a threat to anyone anymore. I begged, pleaded with the Ministry to let him out. Finally, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to speak to Girard, to see if he'd help me get Lucius out."

Harry spoke up. "You were there the night of the Death Eater attack."

She looked at him sharply. "How did you know? I was Polyjuiced at the time. I should have been impossible to recognize."

"I'm no genius," Harry responded dryly, "but I'm not as dense as I look."

Narcissa did something that he never would have expected - she laughed. He saw Lucius smile widely at the sound in his sleep. "Apparently not, boy."

She continued her story. "I got there before the Death Eaters did - I arrived to talk to Girard, and found him talking with another pair of Dark Wizards that I'd known before. I confess that I listened for a few moments. He said that those that were captured would be released after you made your choice, and that there was no risk. He also said that Ivan was out of the way, and that he might have to dispose of other Death Eaters who weren't willing to follow the new Dark Lord to come."

"I wasn't sure what that meant," Narcissa said, "but it didn't seem to bode well - so I decided to leave. Unfortunately, my return to England did not go unnoticed. I was returning to Knockturn Alley, where I planned to change back into my normal clothing, but I arrived in the middle of an Auror raid. I changed back while they were there. They assumed I had something to do with the items they found during the raid, but I was just using the backroom of the store to change. I was guilty of using Polyjuice, though, and they had me dead to rights on that." 

Her narrative seemed to be wandering now.

"Was it Burgin and Bourkes?" Harry asked, remembering the store he'd dropped into in second year.

"You're making a habit of surprising me. How did you guess?"

"Lucius was one of his best customers," Harry said, trying to pretend more knowledge than he really had. "He sold Burgin things that he didn't want to keep around the manor, when the raids started getting fierce." 

Narcissa seemed pleased with his knowledge, and a little surprised. "He didn't tell me what he was doing with them. I was just glad that he was getting most of it out of our house. Using Dark Magic is one thing, but keeping those artifacts in a house with children was irresponsible. Someone could have gotten hurt!"

"Someone did," Harry said softly, looking at Ginny, and Narcissa's gaze followed him.

"I don't understand," Narcissa asked, slowly. "Are you blaming my husband for her incarceration?" She seemed genuinely curious.

"No, that falls on me. I'm blaming him for something a little further back." Harry told her, in short sentences, how Lucius had masterminded the reopening of the Chamber of Secrets in his second year.

"No wonder you hate him," Narcissa said, softly.

"I don't know if I have room left to hate him," Harry said, shaking his head. "I could have, once, but there's just been so much else that's happened since then. I wouldn't have rescued him if it hadn't been for Ginny, though, so that's two he owes her."

"And you wouldn't have rescued either one, if you hadn't rescued me. And that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come by that article. I suppose I have Girard to thank for that?"

Something bothered Harry, and he looked up, wide-eyed. "I can't believe I didn't think of it. Girard didn't give me the article. Viktor did."

"Krum? Girard's been trying to turn him for years. I always thought he was crazed to try - Ivan had filled his head with lectures of the cost of turning to the Dark. Utter hogwash mostly, but Viktor seemed to buy it. Besides, he always liked that Mudblood from Hogwarts."

"Her name is Hermione," Harry responded. Hermione. Viktor had said the message was from her, but it couldn't have been. If it was from Girard, then Viktor was on the other side - and if he was on the other side, then Hermione was in danger. Even more than usual.

Narcissa stared at him. "What is it? You're turning whiter than Draco, and it doesn't look as good on you."

"I think she's in danger. If Krum's on Girard's team... he saw her, the night I left. I don't know..." Harry was babbling, but Narcissa seemed to understand.

"You think he might have her?" Narcissa asked. He nodded. "Then you'll be off to rescue her, I gather."

He started to go after Ginny. "Leave her here," Narcissa commanded, and Harry looked up at her oddly. "I'm not going to hurt her," she said, looking wounded by the suspicion in his eyes. "I don't even have a wand yet, if you'll remember. We should be safe enough here at the present. Just go a bit out to sea before you try Disapparating, so they can't trace you back here."

Harry didn't think he had any choice. There was something ironic in trusting a Malfoy after learning to distrust everyone else, but contemplating it would slow him down too much. He'd already been gone from Durmstrang for almost two days - even if he Apparated back to save time, he had little hope that he'd be in time if they had any intention to hurt Hermione. He had to try, though.

.~.~.

Harry Apparated to near Durmstrang, and flew the rest of the way in under cover of invisibility. He'd gathered from what Girard had said before that the school didn't cooperate with any particular government in the area, so he hoped that his appearance wouldn't gather any attention. He landed on one of the switchbacks leading up to the gates, which still had a hole in them, and strapped his broom to his back. He had many hopes running through his head, among them the hope that Girard hadn't changed the wards that prevented invisible attackers from gaining access.

Harry took a deep breath as he stepped through the hole in the gate, but he wasn't instantly flung back to fall into the river or eviscerated. As soon as he entered the grounds, Harry pulled out the map. He looked through the different levels of the map, hoping that he'd find Hermione. He saw her circle moving in the inner courtyard next to Girard's and Victor's, and then they all vanished.

He almost cried out, but it occurred to him what must have happened. There must have been a door that he hadn't gained access to, which they'd all been brought through. He heard a pulsing, a beating, that he hadn't heard since the previous fall. Looking at the map, it quickly became clear what it was. The Gauntlet had been reopened, as it had during the Choosing, and Hermione had been taken into it.

He raced to the Gauntlet, and was surprised to find the door still open. He hoped that Girard had just gotten sloppy, and that he wasn't waiting for reinforcements, or worse, for Harry.

Walking through the portal, Harry felt like he was in a different world. The map still showed the rest of the castle, though, so he knew he was still on the grounds, and that the strange landscape that surrounded him was some sort of illusion.

He seemed to be in a rust colored valley, surrounded by hills in all directions, sporadically covered with red grass. There was no portal behind him. Dusty paths went off in nine directions, covered with red and black gravel. Eight of them looked well used, the gravel kicked out of place, but the ninth looked like it had been well raked, with crisp borders. A sign lay on the ground near it, having been ripped from the ground - it read "No Admittance" in every language he knew and in a few others.

Harry was fairly sure that this was the path. He was also fairly sure he was expected, and wondered what Girard's game was. He took his broomstick off his back, but put it back when it refused to jump in his hand. No broomstick here, then. He also noticed that he was visible, his cloak looking like a gray-silver cloth. He folded it and put it away. Apparently his magical equipment was useless here.

Harry decided to follow the path.

It seemed like he had been walking for hours when he finally crested the hill in front of him. Looking back, the path looked far longer than it had when he first set foot on it, and he couldn't see any of the other paths. This place was definitely trying to play with his head.

At the top of the hill, he saw the gravel road change to bricks ahead of him, as it entered a close and forbidding forest. The bricks were red clay, and he could see words engraved in them, but they were hard to read. He could only make out the word Vorhaben, which he didn't recognize.

He heard a roaring ahead of him, like a great animal, but the road was too twisting to see what was there. He started to run in that direction, reflecting that what Ron called his "hero thing" was probably going to get him into more trouble again shortly.

As he turned a corner, he saw a pair of children cowed by a pair of lions. They wore Durmstrang robes, cut in a style he didn't recognize; they were floor length instead of ankle length, and were gathered around their wrists. Both of them wore their hair in curls with a long tail. He thought they were both boys, but it was hard to tell, and he had other things to worry about.

They cried for help when they saw Harry. He quickly levitated them both into the trees, at which point the lions turned on him. Harry wasn't sure how well traditional curses worked on lions, but he decided to try them anyway. He tried to jelly-legs the first one, but it ignored the curse. Then he tried the tickling curse. It failed as well, and both lions were now directly in front of him. They weren't attacking yet, though. They just sat there, growling, and waiting.

One of the children in the tree yelled down. He was speaking Latin with a very thick accent, and Harry understood at least the sense. "You have to hurt them!"

"What do you mean," Harry asked in the same language, watching the lions warily.

"The last people that went by, one used Cruciatus, and the lions moved out of the way. He told the other that you needed to be able to cause pain to get by." 

"Why are you still here?"

"We couldn't hurt them. I didn't know anything that worked well enough."

Harry pointed at one of the lions' tails. He cried, "_Incendio_!" The lion's tail blazed, and it ran off. The other lion stood to the side of the road. 

Harry moved to under the tree, and helped the children down. The unhurt lion started to rush at them, but Harry waved his wand at it, and the lion backed down. "They're with me," he said.

Both of the children thanked Harry, and they stuck close to him as he walked along the path.

The path emerged from the forest with little warning, and he saw an unsafe bridge crossing a great chasm, framed by a pair of large stone idols. The bridge was made up of three ropes, two for hands, one for feet, which were occasionally connected by other ropes to hold them together. The ropes looked frayed with age. The chasm's bottom seemed to be covered with a slow, viscous, liquid.

The idols were taller than Harry, and they looked like large heads with open mouths filled with pointed teeth. As he approached the bridge, they turned to him, and their mouths moved. "All must pay the toll," they chanted in Latin, "to cross the bridge."

"What toll," Harry asked them, but there was no response. He looked back at the children, who both shrugged. Then he saw - the idols were made of red-brown stone, but the stone on their bottom lips was stained a deeper red. He reluctantly reached out a finger, and grimaced as it came away sticky.

"The toll is blood," Harry said, and the children grimaced. Before Harry could react, one of them held his hand slightly in the idol's mouth, and yelped as it closed quickly. When the mouth re-opened, Harry saw that one of the boy's fingers was bleeding profusely. The boy tore off some of his robe and wrapped it around his finger, and then stepped towards the bridge. The idols spoke. "You may pass."

The boy spoke, trying to sound brave. "They're with me."

The idols rebutted him, speaking in stereo. "You only may pass. All must pay the toll to cross the bridge." Harry and the other child both put their hands towards the idol's mouth - Harry intentionally using his off-hand - and both yelped at the sharp cuts made, which Harry thought might be almost to the bone.

They both followed the first child across the bridge, holding tightly to the ropes. The ropes swayed as a sudden wind came up. Harry wished his broomstick worked down here, as it would be much better to be able to fly than to depend on these ropes.

One of the children retched, but he didn't seem to have anything left to vomit. Harry wondered how long they had been down here. It occurred to him belatedly that the children might have been part of the place, or friends of Girard, but he didn't know how to prove either one.

Across the great chasm was a castle. It was nothing like either Durmstrang or Hogwarts, instead it looked uninspiring and vaguely two-dimensional. It was short, with modest turrets on each corner of its squarish walls, and a small keep inside. It had a large portcullis, which was currently down.

"Guards!" One of the boys said, pointing up. They were completely still, and they'd just faded into the dark red sky when he first glanced at the castle, but he could see them now. They looked well past their prime - several hundred years, he thought. Each was little more than a skeleton, but they somehow stood as if at attention. They had dulled rusted helmets with pointed tops, and each held a spear.

From the look of them, Harry shouldn't have had anything to fear, but he didn't expect that he would be that lucky. Sure enough, one of the skeletons looked down at him. "Who goes there," it asked, again in Latin.

Harry shouted up, "I'm seeking someone who has come this way. Let me in!"

The skeletons started talking with each other softly, then looked down at him. The spokesman talked. "Have you given pain to those who blocked this trail?"

Harry thought about the lions, and shouted up, "Yes!"

"Have you felt pain?"

"Yes! Let me in."

"One final test remains - you must each cause pain to one of your companions." It pointed at the children.

Harry was fairly confident that the two children were part of this place, but he wasn't entirely sure.

"They aren't my companions!" He shouted back up. "They were just walking this way!"

"One who has fought past the lions must harm a companion to enter. If you do not claim them, they may return to the lions and wait for one that will. If you do not harm them, you may wait for another to claim you here."

"Go ahead," the child who had gone first at the bridge said softly. He looked like he was steeling himself for a deathblow. He looked a little like Ron at the same age, expecting to be treated as nothing special. Harry reached out and squeezed his nose.

The boy sputtered, and Harry smirked. "I caused him pain! Let us enter." The children quickly tweaked each other's noses. The skeletons started laughing, and banging each other on their heads, beating the hats like drums. The portcullis started to rise, and Harry saw an open portal in the middle of the courtyard.

As he walked into the courtyard, three skeletons clawed their way out of the ground. Each wore an amulet around their neck, with a picture of a winged snake on it. The skeletons approached the three, and each pulled off an amulet, presenting them to Harry and the two that he'd claimed. 

"Welcome to House Dragojilovic," each skeleton rasped in a weak Latin, and clasped the amulets around their necks.

Harry had never heard of House Dragojilovic. He wasn't even sure he could pronounce it. It wasn't one of the eight houses. Harry had never heard of a ninth house.

A ninth house. The Ninth. A part of the prophecy became clear - the Ninth at Durmstrang must have meant the ninth house. Girard must have meant for this to happen. Harry looked at the amulet closer - on the back was a Latin inscription, "Tutus quod Temerarus". _Expedient and Bold_, Harry translated, with some difficulty, although he thought that the last word might have had connotations of foolhardiness. Well, that seemed like the place for him.

The portal still stood open before them, and the two children ran through. Harry wasn't sure if he should leave or not, though. The skeleton that had faced him still stood there, and it gestured towards the portal. "You must leave, now. You have been chosen."

"I am looking for someone," Harry responded slowly. "Did you see others come through here?"

"There were three that passed through. One held the Key of Durmstrang - he chose to allow his group to bypass the third trial and the Choosing. They have already left." Harry thought to look at his portal - he saw that Hermione was still with Viktor and Girard, moving towards the Highly Restricted Section. Girard probably meant to imprison her.

Harry ran through the portal. The two children were still standing outside, looking around wildly. "It's so different," one of them muttered under his breath in a barely recognizable German.

Harry didn't see any obvious changes, but he had a thought. He spoke in German, since he'd heard one of them speak in it, and his German was better than his Latin. "You are both eleven years old?" He was trying to sound casual. "Then you were born in what year?"

They looked at him oddly, probably trying to discern if there was a reason he couldn't subtract eleven from some number. He didn't think their answer would be 1988, however.

"I was born in December of 1632," one answered proudly, and the other stated, "March of the Year of our Lord 1633."

"You have been gone for some time," Harry told them. "I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you to do now. I'd suggest speaking with the Headmaster, but he's going to be unavailable very shortly." He did have one thought. "For now, try to find Professor Karkaroff, and ask her to take care of you." The two looked confused, but Harry couldn't spend more time on them right now. He was fairly sure that they'd be all right if left alone, so he started moving towards the Highly Restricted Section.

His trials of the last few days were taking their toll. It was now late at night, and he'd spent almost every waking moment in the last forty-eight hours either walking or on a broomstick. His thighs and calves were killing him, and Harry regretted that he hadn't taken up something athletic when he stopped playing Quidditch. The little bit of flying that he'd done while coaching hadn't kept him in his previous shape.

It took him precious time to get to the Highly Restricted Section. When he got there, he opened the door from the side. A voice called out from the interior. "Welcome, Mister Potter. We have been expecting you."

At one time, Harry would have proudly walked in the door, with his wand out. At one time, though, he had done just that, alongside Cedric Diggory, and Harry hadn't liked that ending.

"How about a deal?" Harry shouted back.

"But of course, Mister Potter," Girard's voice was still calm and in control. It left no doubt that he thought he could bring this to a satisfactory ending. "I can think of nothing I would like better. Please, come in, and sit. I'm certain that Miss Granger would be happy to see you."

Harry called back. "I'd rather not have her see me die, if it's all the same to you. I would like to bargain from out here."

"And what do you have to bargain with?" Girard's tone held just a tinge of acid. "Will you offer to return the book that you have stolen from this room in exchange for the girl? That would be valuing her far too little, as I'm sure you are aware. Come now, do not hesitate. I will not harm her. Here, you may hear her again."

"Harry! Don't come in here. Just go, please." Her voice became muffled again, but Harry was glad that she was still alive.

"Despite her request, Mister Potter, I would request that you do enter, at present. I am well aware that I can no longer stand against you in battle, even now that the reluctant Mister Krum has joined my side."

Harry couldn't see any other way for it. He looked down at the amulet hanging from his neck - entering wasn't expedient, but it was certainly bold. He thought of the house of Gryffindor, which the Sorting Hat had placed him in with rather more forethought than the strange Gauntlet of Durmstrang, and knew he had to act. Harry put his wand inside his shirt sleeve, and walked through the doorway.

"Excellent!" Girard greeted him. He had his hand on a wand, which was pointed at Hermione. She was laid on a coffee table, which didn't look like it belonged here, her hands and legs bound. A gag was in her mouth, and her beautiful ball dress was torn and ripped. Her eyes were downcast, with tears welling in them, and something that looked like shame on her face.

Viktor sat nearby. He looked like he'd been pursued by demons instead of just Harry, his hair a total mess, his face scratched. His left eye was bruised, and there were tears in his shirtsleeves. He wasn't looking at Harry or Hermione.

Harry looked at him. "Looks like she showed you how she really felt, eh?" He was rewarded by a look of gratitude from Hermione, and an equal look of hatred from Viktor.

Girard laughed. "I must thank you, Mister Potter, for your inability to control your tongue. It may make working together more difficult, but I could never have convinced Viktor to help if he had not heard us in the garden. Please, sit down, and let me explain. We have plenty of time."

He gestured to a chair, and Harry sat. His blood boiled as he sought action, but Girard could curse Hermione before he could do anything useful. Harry thought about just kicking the wand out of Girard's hand, but Viktor could overpower him easily.

"Plenty of time before what?" Harry asked.

"Before the consecration of the next Dark Lord," Girard smiled benignly. "It doesn't need to happen until the afternoon of the 19th. We have almost two days. You returned more quickly than I thought you would."

"You want me here for this consecration?" Harry asked, not totally surprised. He wasn't usually on the guest list for evil rituals, except as an appetizer for the guest of honor or a spell component. He kind of expected one of the two in this case.

Girard laughed, "Yes, but of course! I'm sure that your friend here has figured it out." He poked Hermione with his wand, and she looked scared.

"Tell me, Harry, you who have taught Dark Arts at two of the finest institutions in Europe. What makes a Dark Lord?"

"Not sugar and spice and everything nice," Harry snapped back. "If I'd been in the mood for a philosophical confrontation, I would have stayed with Narcissa."

"I am pleased to see that you have a healthy temper, Mister Potter. I've done my best to develop it. But it would be helpful to think on this question. It might help you to understand why this whole charade was necessary."

Harry answered. "Dark Lords are people who've heard too many fairy-tales, and think they look good in black. They're just dark wizards with power and a bunch of followers." Girard's almost avuncular manner was like a caricature of Dumbledore.

"That is true for many of them, Mister Potter, but most such people don't have prophecies told about them. The true Dark Lords have been granted incredible power through the Dark Arts, and they find it difficult to avoid using it.

"Those people act like sources of power for Dark Magics. They collect followers because they can do so much more together. There are things that I have dreamed of doing for years, but I could not gather the power for them. That will not be a problem after the rise of the Dark Lord."

"That assumes that he'll have anything to do with you," was Harry's retort. "And that he won't Cruciate you out of hand for trying to control him."

"I don't think that will happen," Girard smiled. "This is a kinder, gentler Dark Lord, if you will. It will probably take him years for the Dark power to rot his brain enough to strike out like Voldemort was wont to do, as long as I don't give him an excuse. And I am very much hoping not to."

Harry shook his head. "You are crazy to think that you can control him."

"I don't." Girard responded. "I merely hope to profit from him for a short time, and then get out of his way. I believe that, like Voldemort, he will be more occupied with England than with the rest of the world. I have a small home in another hemisphere, ready for me."

"I want Hermione released, now." Her hands and feet were turning an alarming color.

"Let us compromise, shall we? You may untie her, Viktor, but leave the gag for now. I do not want her chiming in." Viktor, looking sullen, obeyed. He seemed to be especially careful when untying her hands. Harry noticed that several of her nails were broken, and guessed how that had happened.

"What do you want, Girard?"

"I want to be your friend, Harry." His smile was slightly mad.

"Why could you want that, Girard? You've been trying to kill me all year!"

"I have not, Harry. I've never wanted you hurt." Definitely mad, Harry thought, and not in the somewhat good way that Dumbledore was.

"Then what was with all the Death Eaters?"

"They weren't really Death Eaters, just Dark Wizards. There's a difference, you know."

Harry laughed. "What, they have a different secret handshake?"

Viktor's eyes grew wide. "You know about that?" Girard and Harry both ignored him.

"Not what I meant," Girard said. "These are all just Dark Wizards hoping to find more power for their magic. Some of them are hoping that the new Dark Lord will overthrow the Ministry of Magic in England, since he has no reason to have love for it. None of them are following Voldemort, which, as he is dead, speaks well for them."

The banter with Girard was wearying Harry. "What did they want with me, if they didn't want me dead?"

"They wanted to help you, Harry. They wanted you to reach your potential. They wanted you to use the Dark Arts, to depend on them, to learn to feed your hatred and anger. That is why we arranged to have the Orpheus curse used on you last year - it opens the doors more effectively than any other. We were sure that you would survive it, and you did."

Harry didn't like what he was hearing. "I don't have to use the Dark Arts. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't need to use them. You don't need to use any magic. Tell me, how did you make it through the gauntlet? Did you Cruciate the young children who have been trapped in there for so long, left there just to test those like you? Did you kill the lions that were trying to attack them?

"You don't need to choose to kill, to destroy, to cause pain, but you have done so. With each choice, you'll find a little less reason to avoid it. Using the Dark Arts is so much easier, not because the power is easy to use or to learn, but because it is so much easier to just shout a spell that has such final effects than to think your way out."

Girard was on a roll now, and Harry wasn't sure if he could interrupt if he tried. "You have many problems in your way, Harry. Your Ministry will hate you, and many others will despise you. From your earlier comments, I assume that you've rescued Narcissa Malfoy. I doubt that even those that had sympathy for you before will care the least bit for you now. Even Miss Granger here will never forgive you for choosing to save Ginny, leaving her here, after you saw what Viktor was doing to her in the Library. You will find yourself forced into expediency, because you will be too bold to run again. Expediency will lead to more use of the Dark Arts, until it becomes second nature. You are well and truly trapped."

"I didn't know," Harry denied, looking at Hermione. "I thought you wanted to be with him. I'm sorry, I didn't know." He wrenched his gaze back towards Girard. "Why do you care? Why are you doing this to me? Were you afraid I'd interfere?"

"No, Harry." Girard's eyes looked delighted. "I just needed you to be ready for your consecration. You're the member of the Ninth, one of only three since the prophecy was given, and the only one who matches the rest of the prophecy. You're the one to be consecrated."

A/N: The inscription on the road was inspired by a road in an old TSR AD&D adventure called Castle Greyhawk, although there's very little in common between this and that, fortunately. In the adventure, the road physically leads to another dimension, where some Evil souls were supposed to go when they die. The road's inscription is "Good Intentions."

A mix of Army of Darkness, Monty Python, and a serious lack of sleep inspired the castle guards. Since this is a relatively serious story, I left out the barnyard animals.

Although I'd be happy to translate the text to pseudo-Latin, I'm trying to keep that for the use of spells and short phrases. Especially for those trying to read this through a translator, switching languages in mid-stream is a royal pain.

I honestly didn't think of the Star Wars saga until I wrote the words Dark Lord above, and even then, I mainly thought of the Naked Quidditch Match from gryffindortower.net. I don't identify the dark side of the force with the dark arts, despite the similar dress code.


	14. Chapter 14 : Revelations

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Revelations**

By now, Harry was expecting it, although he was still shocked when Girard said the words. "Me? In case you haven't noticed, I'm hardly the ruddy poster boy for the Dark Arts."

"Really, Mister Potter? I've seen your face on quite a few posters recently. I'd think that you were perfect for the role. Do you really know who you are, Mister Potter?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're a Dark Wizard, not one of the Light. You've caused pain with spells, you use the Unforgivable curses. You are going to be Kissed by a Dementor if you ever return home. Haven't you realized yet, Harry, who you are?"

Harry shook his head, but it was a weak denial. "No, I can't be," he was murmuring under his breath. Hermione was trying to talk underneath her gag, and her hands were reaching up to undo it.

Girard spoke softly. "Viktor, she's becoming a nuisance. Cruciate her."

"No!" Harry shouted.

"Really, Harry, you must avoid being so predictable. I know how you feel about Viktor and Hermione. Your feelings are so delightfully obvious that anyone within a half-mile of you should have known. If you wish to stop him, do so. Viktor, Cruciate her."

Viktor didn't seem to understand that he was being used to bait Harry, but he still looked reluctant when he pointed the wand at her. Harry wondered if he really had feelings for Hermione, and if it was only the way that they'd been crushed that had made him give in to Girard's persuasion.

Harry had no choice - he had to stop Viktor. His wand slipped easily into his hand, and pointed it confidently at Viktor. He didn't feel anger, though, or hate. Looking at Viktor, he could only muster pity. "_Rictusempra_!" Harry exclaimed, and Viktor dropped his wand in his fit.

"Really, Mister Potter, I would have thought you would have gone beyond that by now. Can you not muster something a little more powerful?"

"Girard, it's over. Just let Hermione go. I'm not who you think I am."

"You're not?" Girard smirked. "I still don't think you know who you are. You had to make a choice at Hogwart's, when you saw that eleven-year-old boy about to kill your special friend, and you made it. You chose who you are Harry, and you can't change it now."

"I can," Harry said, but it was a plea, not a statement. "I can't change the past, but I don't have to live by it. I'm not that person."

Girard replied, "Harry, can you honestly say that you wouldn't make that choice again? That you wouldn't kill to protect someone that you - dare I say it - love?"

"If I said that I was making the same choice," the Headmaster continued, "that I needed your power because of my care for someone else - would that be enough to make me 'Good' in your eyes? Would you embrace me as a lost brother?"

"I think not, Harry," Girard said with finality. "You still think of yourself as something special, that all of your wrongs are washed away by the rights that you've done. You're wrong though, Harry. Nothing that any man can do can wash away the blood. You've chosen the Dark Arts now, and they've chosen you."

"Let me prove it to you, Harry. I assure you that the Shielding Charms I've placed between us will handle tickling charms, and even Jelly-Legs." Girard's taunting voice made it clear what he thought of those as weapons. "There are only a few spells that they won't block. I'm going to kill Hermione now, Harry." He said this with as little emotion as if he was discussing the weather. "Even if you kill me, the work that I've wanted to accomplish will be put in place when you reach your full potential. I can afford to die for this to happen."

"What if I won't kill you?" Harry replied

Girard snorted. "I doubt you're experienced enough in Imperious to stop me that way, and I can take Cruciatus long enough to complete my spell. Hermione will die."

Harry's wand was pointing at him. He didn't have to spend much effort to work up hatred against the slick Headmaster, although it was closer to disgust.

Hermione was shaking her head, her eyes pleading with Harry. He didn't know if she was begging him to save her, or not to. If she died, he'd never know which she intended.

"You're right," Harry said. "I'd do the same thing again. If you make me, I'll kill you. I'm no better than you."

"Very good," Girard said. "Now let's see if I can't cut the last of the bonds holding you to humanity." He looked back at Hermione, and raised his wand over his head, a sneer cutting across his face.

Harry was a pace faster than him, although he was saying the same words. "Avada..." But Hermione was gone. There was a flash of feathers, and something flew in his face. He stopped casting the spell, and the brown owl moved away from his face, turning back into Hermione.

Harry was overcome. He realized that his mind was going in circles, trying to figure out what to think, what to say, what to believe. He didn't know who Harry Potter was anymore; he didn't know how to react.

Hermione had been there most of the year. She'd been in his room. He was glad he slept in his boxers, and wished he'd stuck with the dressing gowns he used when he was younger. She'd seen his troubles; she'd helped him out. She was probably the one who'd kept ordering food and drinks. The owl had flown off the night he completed the map - she'd known what he was doing, and hadn't wanted to show up on it.

All of these realizations fluttered through his mind, and he looked at her in awe. "Thank you," he said, overcome with emotion.

"Are you alright, Harry?" she asked. Her voice was laden with concern, and it hurt. It hurt because he knew, knew beyond any doubt, that he wasn't worthy of it. He felt almost patronized, and started to feel anger at her. He knew, suddenly, that Girard had been right, and he saw the look of victory on the Headmaster's face.

"Get out," he said, sharply. "Just leave, quickly. I can't see you again."

"Harry?" She sounded more hurt than he'd believed possible.

"Just please, get out. I can't... I'll hurt you, and I couldn't bear it. Please, just leave."

"If that's what you want," she was starting to cry, and she started to run out the door, but he grabbed her arm. He hated to see her cry. He could make her stop -- he could wipe away the memory that was hurting her, or just make her stop with a spell. That was what the new Harry Potter would do, wasn't it? He couldn't imagine himself hurting her, but he knew it could happen. The anger and hatred weren't buried within him anymore, they were surfacing, and they would hurt the people near him if he let them.

"That's the last thing I want," he said softly, wishing devoutly that Girard and Viktor weren't still there. "I've never told you how I feel about you. I wish I could have said something while there was still a chance, if there ever was. Just - go back to England, and don't let them connect you with me. Tell them anything, just don't let yourself get hurt. I couldn't bear it..."

Viktor was blubbering, now, but Girard was still just standing there. Harry wished he'd killed him a second ago while he had the chance. The Headmaster's wand was no longer at the ready, and Harry's wand flashed out, "_Finite Incantatum_!" Any shielding charms that might have been in the way disappeared, and before Girard could react, Harry had lashed his arms and legs together with another quick spell. He decided that Viktor was mostly harmless, and just reached out and took his wand, otherwise leaving him alone. Girard started sputtering protests, but Harry ignored him, gently guiding Hermione outside.

"I heard about the Orpheus curse," Hermione said. "I can't believe they did it to you and Ginny."

"It could have been worse," Harry said. "It could have been you and me."

Hermione looked away. "Not worth thinking about," she said, her voice husky with emotion.

"I guess you're right," Harry was disappointed at her rejection, but not too surprised. He'd already told her to get lost - did he expect an overwhelming display of true love?

"Did you know that Ginny was in Azkaban?" Harry asked, although he suspected that mentioning her was a bad idea. Hermione's back was to him, her bushy hair in reach. He thought about putting his hands through it, trying to hold her, but thought that she'd probably not appreciate that. He knew he'd always regret not having held her while he could.

Hermione shook her head, and her hair shook with it. It was almost mesmerizing. She didn't speak, though.

"I don't know whom to trust to take care of her - she's almost worse off than Malfoy," he said.

"You'll be keeping her, then," she asked, her voice broken.

"I'd rather not," he said, "but I don't know what else to do. I'd ask you - I know you'd be the best for her - but I've already ruined her life. I couldn't bear ruining yours, too."

"Harry," her voice was muffled. "If I've got to leave you, I think I should just go, now."

"I understand," he said. "I wish I could say that I'll keep in touch, but I don't know how I'd ever manage it."

"That's all right, Harry. I understand. You've made your choice. You've got to live with it."

"If I had to go back, I'd change it all. He didn't need to have that happen to him" Harry pictured young Falco Van Hoek, victim of a Killing Curse at his own hands. "I didn't know...but I can't go back. If I could make a choice, I know what I'd choose. I'd choose..." he trailed off, finishing the sentence only in his mind.

"What, Harry? What would you choose?" She sounded hopeful, but she was still looking away.

_I'd choose you_, he thought, but he couldn't tell her that.

"I can't... I can't say the words. It hurts too much when I know it's impossible. I'd do anything to make it happen, but I can't go back, and it's too late to go forward. Goodbye, 'Mione." He clasped his hands on her shoulders, and she put her hands on them.

"Harry," she said, anguished. "If you could have anything, what would it be?"

"If I can ever make the choice," he said, with no hope that it could happen. "You'd be the first one to know." He turned, and walked away, hoping that she wouldn't say anything.

And hoping even more that she would.


	15. Epilogue : Choices

**EPILOGUE - Choices**

Kirsten sat across the table from Hermione, sipping tea. There was still a sense of tension between them. They'd been working together since Harry's disappearance, Hermione filling in for Harry at the request of the newly rehired Headmaster, Ivan Karkaroff. Classes were about to conclude for the term, however, and Hermione was not planning on staying here after that time.

The two were in Hermione's quarter's, talking over the subject that they most often avoided around each other. In front of them lay a number of clippings from the Daily Prophet covering the last few months.

Britain's Ministry of Magic had formally ordered the Aurors to use any means necessary to capture him after his rescue of Lucius Malfoy, and had authorized him to be Kissed without further trial. Arthur Weasley had retired from the Ministry due to the strain on his family. Fred and George were offering a reward for the safe return of Ginny, whom they described as being kidnapped.

Most of the countries bordering Durmstrang had fairly weak Ministries, and hadn't made up their minds yet what position to take on Harry. It seemed to come down to an estate by estate level, with each powerful Magical family announcing their own level of support or antipathy for Harry. He had made enemies of Voldemort's followers and most of the Dark Wizards, and now most of the Light, as well, but it still looked like about half of Eastern Europe was willing to give him half a chance. Hermione, looking at the names, wasn't surprised to see that most of the people that were willing to support him were parents that had children at Durmstrang, with a large number of them in House Martello.

She didn't think that Harry would take any of them up on their offers of support, though. From what she could tell, Harry was still with Lucius and Narcissa and Ginny -- at least, there had been a reliable sighting of them together only a month before in Scotland. Colin had forwarded his picture of the four together to Dumbledore, who had forwarded it to Hermione. As long as Harry was with the Malfoys, she didn't think he'd find asylum with anyone that he'd care to associate with.

Their discussion had more silence than talk. Kirsten and Hermione were trying to brainstorm, but neither trusted the other enough to risk saying something stupid. That hadn't allowed them to get anywhere.

Kirsten put her tea down. "Perhaps I should just leave you to figure this out. I do not appear to be helping."

Hermione shook her head. "We need to find him. He needs to know that it isn't too late. There are still choices he can make."

"The Prophecy? Even if he doesn't let it define him, he'll never be able to come back. What sort of choices do you think he has?"

"He could come back to Durmstrang, and teach..."

Kirsten shook her head. "No, Uncle Ivan says that he doesn't think Harry would be safe here. We've already seen a number of Aurors camping outside the walls, keeping watch."

Hermione remembered Moody's paranoia, and his absolute willingness to ignore the rules to catch a dark wizard. If his kind were after Harry, he couldn't surface. She shook her head. "You're right, the way it is now. But the Prophecy is clear -- he can make a choice, one choice, after the rest of it has been proven out. If he chooses correctly, he can live as something other than a Dark Wizard."

"And otherwise, we will have to wait for another Harry Potter to defeat him. Do you really think he could become as Dark a Lord as Voldemort?"

Hermione shook her head, but she would never have thought that Harry could be driven as far as he already had. If he thought it was necessary, she knew he'd act however he had to act, if he could rationalize it. The more he used Dark Magic, the harder it would be for him to avoid using it.

Kirsten spoke up again. "I cannot picture him doing that. I know that I'll never know him as well as you do..." Her voice caught, but she continued, "but he was kind to me. If he knew that there was a choice, would he not make the right one?"

"I hope so."

"Then can we not tell him? Let him see what he is contending with – and hope that he will choose the right way?"

"We can't get a message to him."

"There is always a way," Kirsten said. "I have dared not mention it, since he was in Britain, and anything we do may be traced. If it is the last hope, though, then we can send him a message."

"Why didn't you mention this before?" Hermione asked with a biting tone in her voice. "We could have talked to him already -- set up a meeting?"

"I was selfish," Kirsten said, looking down. "I could think of nothing to say to him right now, and I did not want to hear what I knew he would ask. I was going to wait until you had left... I could not bear to hear him speak with you."

Hermione was surprised at Kirsten's candor, and reached her arm across the table to squeeze her hand. "You're a friend of his, too, you know. I'm sure he cares about you." She hadn't mentioned, yet, the time she'd spent as an owl, how she'd seen Harry with his arm around Kirsten, or the looks that Kirsten had given him.

Kirsten shook her head in negation. "I am not truly a friend, just someone that he treated well. Even if I were, I would not be you."

Her implication was clear, but Hermione ignored it. She knew how she felt about Harry, but she didn't believe that her feelings were returned. She had felt a connection in his gaze, and heard something in his words, that gave her some hope, but she put that down to his loneliness and their friendship. She had realized that Kirsten thought Hermione was the reason that Harry hadn't fallen head over heels for her, but she thought that was just because it was clear it had been that way with Viktor, despite Hermione's best intentions.

Apparently, Viktor's enthusiasm and lack of English had led him to read far too much into the letters she'd sent. If she had hung around the other staff more, or if Harry had talked in his sleep, she might have known what was coming, but she had been totally oblivious. Viktor's return letters had been sweet, but scarcely had her expecting his assault at Valentine's. He had been weeping and calling out her name when Kirsten imprisoned him in the basement, but she could only feel so sorry for him.

"I love your idea," Hermione said, "if he's still the person we both care about, he'll know what to choose when the time comes. I just know he will. Do you think we should say anything else?"

"Tell him how you feel," Kirsten said. "Tell him - don't let him go."

Hermione hesitated, ready for another denial, but decided that was unfair. If Kirsten could see it, there was no reason to keep it from Harry - he would have seen it sooner himself, if he wasn't too busy saving the world. She would tell him, and let him make his choice. All of his choices.

~.~.~

Harry wiped the tears from Ginny's cheeks. She had been crying in her sleep again. Her voice sounded hoarse almost all the time, and he'd had to resort to potions mixed by Narcissa to prevent her from losing it permanently. They were fortunate that the place that Narcissa had taken them, apparently meant for this sort of eventuality, was well stocked with potion supplies. Given Lucius' proclivities, that probably shouldn't have been a surprise.

Harry could hardly believe that he was living with the elder Malfoys, let alone trusting one of them, but Narcissa hadn't done anything to earn his distrust recently. She had even apologized, with much trepidation, for telling her husband of her visit from the old family house-elf. Since that act had ultimately cost Sirius Black his life, she had to have been fearful to face Harry, but he was able to forgive her without even fighting the dark anger again.

Neither Ginny or Lucius had improved much since being taken from Azkaban, but Harry felt more at peace. He still had the sense that the Dark Arts were there for the taking, but he hadn't used them since leaving Durmstrang. As long as no one was actively threatening him, he could pretend that the power wasn't there.

He had started talking with Narcissa, mainly because they only had each other to talk with. She told him of her own flirtation with the Dark Arts, which had started at Hogwarts; how Lucius had encouraged her to use them more, but she'd avoided depending on them. She would have used an Unforgivable in an instant if it would have helped her family, but she'd never been there at the times when it would have been necessary.

Narcissa had known some of what Voldemort had done, but hadn't really cared. She admitted this freely, but Harry could see that it cost her to do so. All she had was her family, her famed pureblood and connections, and she couldn't risk them to leave Lucius or defy the Dark Lord.

When Lucius was imprisoned, and Draco fled, she was left with almost nothing. Malfoy Manor didn't even have a house-elf to its name anymore. She had to resort to hiring a pair of squibs to do chores, although they were so obviously afraid of the family reputation that she couldn't depend on them much.

She obviously expected Harry to take their place here at the cottage in Scotland, and he found that he didn't mind much. She was easier to please than his Aunt Petunia and she was good at avoiding topics that hurt too much.

She only cornered him twice on these topics, and her lectures had been short, but memorable. First, when Hermione's name had come up, she had made her thoughts clear. "If you just want to be around her because she listens, or because she's a good researcher, buy a poodle or rent a librarian. If you miss her because she reminds you of the old days, or just because she's a woman, I'm sure Pansy Parkinson is available. That girl has been practically throwing herself at anyone with a pint of wizard blood - I hear she even asked one of the Weasleys out. If you want to be around Hermione because you love her, then get it over with."

Second, and no less pointed, was her advice on the Dark Arts. "Despite what you may think, they don't control you. You still have a choice."

He had interrupted - "But what if I need to save someone I care about? What about self-defense?"

"You always have a choice. You may not like it, but you always have a choice. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named acted in self-defense when he tried to kill you. Were his actions right? From what I've heard, the Crouch boy acted out of loyalty. Was he right to do so? You have a choice, and you can't avoid that by trying to make someone else responsible for your actions."

Harry wasn't sure what to think. He knew that his actions had damned him, but Narcissa seemed convinced that he wasn't irrevocably committed to the Dark Arts. He didn't understand, but he knew that he had some hard choices to make.

~.~.~

Severus Snape's teaching had been steadily improving over the last several months. He had none of his old bile, but his students were still afraid of his detentions.

He felt like he was waiting for a sentence for his past crimes, and he was making the most of the time. Honest reflection, and nights of nightmares, had told him what he would find in the Pensieve, but until he saw it, he could avoid paying the price.

He wasn't sure what he would do when Albus gave the Pensieve back to him. What would an appropriate sentence be for years of grinding students into the dust? Could he repay them, somehow, by becoming a better person? He was still Severus Snape, and he doubted that. He hoped that he would have some sense of how to resolve his feelings when he had truly faced his past through the eyes of those whom he had wronged.

He knew the time was approaching when he would find out, but he was unprepared for the knock on his door just as he graded the last exam paper.

Snape responded, "Enter!" Albus Dumbledore entered, a small box in his hands. Severus recognized it, and his hands trembled. 

"Is it time, then?"

"Perhaps." The Headmaster hesitated. "Severus, would you like to talk?"

The Headmaster's question caught him off-guard. "Excuse me, Headmaster?"

"I must confess something, Severus. I had fully intended to show you memories in your Pensieve that would change your mind, which would balance what you had recorded there. I realized something in the process. This may be a surprise to you, but I have a tendency to try to solve everyone else's problems, mostly by talking to them." There was a twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, briefly, but then it disappeared. "I've rarely been good at helping other people by listening."

Snape was surprised by Dumbledore's honest confession, but he wasn't sure why. The Headmaster had always been good at admitting his wrongs. "Professor, I am unsure of what to say."

"Then start with what is troubling you, Severus. I thought I knew, but my guesses are not always correct. It would be better to hear it from you."

Snape didn't realize how many doubts he had been holding inside. He let them loose in a torrent, and Albus merely nodded his head, listening, apparently not judging. There was a look to the Headmaster that Severus was unused to - a look that said that his every word was being heard and understood, that Albus was taking everything in, not merely letting him vent in his general direction. It felt good.

Snape eventually began to run out of breath. Albus was still looking at him. "Severus, from what you said... do you believe that some sort of punishment is in order?"

Severus nodded his head, but Albus shook his. "Severus, with the best of intentions, and guided by emotion, you have made many misjudgments over the years. There is no amount of punishment or reparation that may undo those misdeeds. And, if there were, you would not be alone in that task."

Severus' voice was trembling. "It is not that simple, Headmaster. There must be something that I can do."

"There is," Albus' voice was judgmental. "You can choose. You can choose to do better from this point on." Albus' hand silenced Snape's protests. "It is, indeed, more difficult than it sounds. And if you cannot ever repay those that you have wronged, that does not mean that you cannot choose to do them right. If you need me to assign a penance, Severus, I will do so, but you cannot depend on any action on your part to make things right, other than the action of choosing to make Severus Snape a person whom you can respect."

Albus laughed, and shook his head. "I promised myself that I would not lecture, but here I am, again. It looks like I need some more penance myself. I do not suppose that you would be willing to accompany me to Honeydukes, to pick up some gifts for our departing students?"

Snape almost reflexively shook his head, but stopped. If Severus Snape was to be someone that students did not hate, someone who didn't hate himself, would he not have to think of each decision with that in mind? He stood up. "I would like that very much, Headmaster. There are some students in desperate need of some Weasley Wizard Wheezes, in fact." He walked out of the office with Albus, a large, unfamiliar smile on his face, leaving the Pensieve behind, forgotten.

-------

A/N - One reviewer commented privately that they hoped that this epilogue would provide more hope than the last. I hope that it has done so.


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